Obituary
by occhi bella
Summary: An unexpected series of events unfolds after Ichabod stumbles upon a certain obituary.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sleepy Hollow or its characters. Just this little story.

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Prologue

It was by odd chance that Ichabod encountered a newspaper from Hartford, Connecticut miles away in New York City. It was by an even more freakishly odd chance that he happened upon this particular edition of that paper, dated the first of March, eighteen hundred.

The body was already cold when he discovered it in this particular alley, a notorious little spot in a seedy and dangerous neighborhood. There was a nasty gash across the man's temple, from a blow that was more than likely the cause of death. Streaks of blood covered the side of his face, beginning at the wound and ending in a pool on the ground beneath his head. At first glance there didn't appear to be any other injuries to the body. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, was of medium height and build, and he was well dressed save for his shoes, which were missing; lifted no doubt by a vagrant that had either killed the man for his property or merely come upon the body and seized an opportunity.

Ichabod sighed and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink. He wrote down his observations of the wound, the man's description and dress, the position of the body and its surroundings. When he'd finished writing he knelt down and began to search the clothing on the body, rummaging through his pockets in hopes of finding papers or some evidence of the man's identity. Any money that had been on the victim's person was no doubt gone, looted along with his shoes.

In the inside pocket of the victim's coat he found the newspaper, rolled up and tucked away. He withdrew it and saw that it was open to a page somewhere in the middle. The name of the paper was written across the top of the page, along with the date; it was a six-day-old paper. Ichabod wrote this down, as well as the name and city. Then he jotted down a note beside that, theorizing that the man was probably from out of town. He, at least, had never seen a Hartford paper on sale here in the city.

At first glance this appeared to be a case of a tourist who, unfamiliar with the city, had wandered into the wrong neighborhood and paid the price for it. There were too many people living below the poverty line, many of them homeless, and the majority of these folks lived and loitered in this vicinity. They were desperate people and any one of them might have attacked a well-dressed man for his money and things, particularly if it was a man that was clearly out of his place.

Still, Ichabod had learned better than to form a conclusion based on initial impressions. All possibilities had to be considered. This man may have had shady dealings with disreputable associates, or perhaps he had an enemy for some other reason.

He finished taking notes in his ledger and was about to ring his bell to summon the other nearby constables for help when the name "Ely Crane" printed in the middle of the page of the paper caught his eye. His heart skipped a full beat then began to thud so loudly it made his head throb. Gingerly he lifted the newspaper and smoothed it out, then read the headline in disbelief.

_Reverend Ely Crane, Respected Clergyman of the First Presbyterian Church of Hartford and Pillar of Community, Dead at Age 65._


	2. Childhood's End

_**1. Childhood's End**_

"Ichabod…Ichabod."

He started at the sound of his wife's voice and raised his head. Loving hands came to rest on his shoulders and she leaned over him from behind his chair, loose strands of her long blonde mane spilling over and tickling his cheek as she planted a soft kiss there.

"You snuck in without greeting me," she remarked, resting her chin on his shoulder and leaning her head against his. She spoke tenderly and playfully but there was a subtle pout in her voice.

"I'm sorry." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I've been calling you. What are you thinking about, my love?"

"Things...past," he answered in a strangled voice.

After recovering from the initial shock that set in after he read the headline and the obituary, he'd replaced the paper in the victim's coat pocket. He rang his bell to summon Constables Jackson and Thomas, who were also patrolling in that area and they came running into the alley hastily. Jackson immediately went off again to bring a coffin cart and bearers while Thomas remained behind with Ichabod, smirking at him. At least it seemed to Ichabod that he was smirking at him; Thomas always had that look about him. Or perhaps the other man had noticed that he was shaken up. In Ichabod's opinion Thomas was generally obtuse and rather slow, hardly an observant man. But Thomas and his other colleagues were aware of his tendency toward squeamishness and he was the frequent butt of their jokes. His fellow constable may have assumed that he was disturbed by the sight of the body.

Fortunately Thomas, whatever he thought, refrained from taunting him and remained silent. Jackson returned quickly with help and they loaded the body onto the cart and set off for the Watch House. High Constable Warwick frowned with disdain as they wheeled in the corpse and he took a good look at it. This was not a nice straight-forward death by natural causes, or by drowning or any other accident, which meant that they would need to round up suspects and witnesses; another complex case added to a mountain of unsolved cases. And another opportunity for Ichabod and his superior to inevitably butt heads on how the investigation was to be carried out, especially when the High Constable once again ordered the bearers to burn the body.

Ichabod's method was to conduct a full examination of the body, attempt to locate witnesses and piece together the victim's circumstances and history. From there he could come up with a list of suspects and motives, hopefully drawing a logical conclusion as to the guilty party eventually.

Quick and painless was the High Constable's method. He cared less about facts and scientific methods and more about apprehending a body to blame, any body.

"Close the case quickly, Constable Crane, and mind your actions."

"And the body…"

"No examination," he replied sternly.

"Burning it will remove any traces of evidence that may be there…"

"No examination, Constable Crane," he repeated in a louder voice, already showing signs of becoming truly perturbed.

"This man was carrying a newspaper from out of town, a Hartford paper. It is possible that he was only visiting and that someone in Hartford will be looking for him, wondering where he is. If you won't let me examine the body I beg you to at least leave it intact, in the event that I can find someone to identify him."

"There is scarcely any available living space in this overcrowded city, yet alone burial space," he retorted. "What would you have me do? Leave him on display in the Watch House?"

"With all due respect, he can be buried in the field of graves outside of the city limits. It will leave the body intact for the most part since the ground is still cold from winter and if we do find someone to claim it, it can be exhumed when necessary."

"Do you have any idea how much that will cost in time, money and manpower?"

"But…"

"I have had just about enough of you, Constable Crane!"

"Sir, I beg you. This was a well-dressed man, not a vagrant without ties to any community and…"

His superior slammed his fist down on the desk furiously, cutting him off in mid-sentence. But he didn't speak, instead leaning over his desk, appearing to think something over. A thick silence hovered over them and Ichabod waited tensely.

"Very well, Constable," he finally said, more calmly. "You've made a good point."

Ichabod exhaled softly. He'd had a feeling that pointing out the man's dress and possible position in society would make the High Constable think twice about the way he handled this.

High Constable Warwick called after the two men that were bearing the body toward the furnace, where there were about ten corpses lined up to be burned first. They turned and he beckoned them over.

"Bring the body with you. It's going to be buried instead of cremated."

Arrangements were discussed as to where and how the corpse should be taken and how it was to be disposed of.

"Do it quickly and as simply as you possibly can. Erect a wooden marker and write on it that this is the grave of the unknown Hartford man."

Although the outcome wasn't completely what Ichabod had hoped for it would have to do. At least the body would be somewhat preserved, and fairly easy to locate.

With that out of the way and his duty shift ended Ichabod's thoughts turned to the obituary he'd discovered and the odd circumstance and coincidence that had led him to it. Before long the memories came unbidden. Somehow he made it home and past Katrina without her seeing or hearing him come in. He sank into the large chair in the sitting room and had been sitting there for hours it seemed, unable to keep at bay the traumas of the past.

"Ichabod, you're trembling!"

Katrina moved around to the front of the chair and knelt before him, her warm brown eyes probing his face worriedly.

"What is it?"

He shook his head wordlessly and she took his hands firmly, rising and coaxing him to his feet. Without protest or resistance he allowed her to lead him to the couch, where she could sit beside him and hold him.

"Katrina," he murmured brokenly as she drew him against her and began to stroke his dark hair.

"Tell me what happened."

Ichabod was silent for some time before finally speaking. "Today I...by coincidence...I came upon my father's obituary."

The hand that was stroking his hair stilled.

"Oh! When did he die?"

"The date of the paper was six days ago, the first of March."

He told her about the victim that he'd found in the alleyway, and the newspaper tucked into his pocket.

"How long a journey is it between Hartford and New York? If it's two days between here and Sleepy Hollow it must be at least twice that distance to Hartford. Today is the seventh. He must have just arrived only a day or two ago."

"Yes!" he exclaimed in wonder. "And he immediately wandered into the wrong neighborhood. How did I neglect to think of the timing?"

"You were in shock, my love."

"I suppose."

"I'm sorry about it."

"Oh, Katrina, I hated him! I haven't seen him for years, since I left home. And now...seeing that...I'm thinking of those times again...all the terrible things..."

"Shhh," she soothed, drawing him close against her body again.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, feeling foolish, a grown man behaving like a small child.

"The pain is in the remembering," she said softly. "But so is the healing."

One day when they were still in Sleepy Hollow he'd told her about his mother's death, revealing to another soul for the first time in his life that his own father had murdered his mother for being a witch. But he never told her any of the details, or anything else about those times, for he never wished to burden her.

"It's alright, Ichabod."

Ichabod sank against her chest and began to share his grief with her.

**oooOooo**

Twenty-one years ago he was seven years old. Although he was a serious young boy, with a gravity to him that was rarely seen in children, he was still innocent and naïve. And content. Mornings were spent in school, under the tutelage of a strict and authoritarian teacher, but Ichabod was a bright and enthusiastic pupil who loved learning and he excelled in all academic subjects. He spent idyllic afternoons after school with his mother in the clearing in the woods, as he'd done since he was a tiny child, watching her as she picked milkweed and blew on the delicate filaments and seeds until they loosened and were lifted up and away by the breeze. Sometimes he would lie in the grass, watching her dreamily as she danced and spun, first on the ground and then magically in the air, as if the wind had lifted her.

She loved wildflowers and he would wander off to find the brightest, prettiest flowers to bring to her, flowers with petals in shades of purple and blue and bright pink. Whenever he handed her the nosegays that he'd carefully picked his mother would gift him with a smile filled with tenderness and the most loving expression in her warm brown eyes, an expression that revealed the complete pleasure that she took in her son. When they returned to the house she would start a fire in the hearth and toss some of the flowers in. The flames leaped as those special flowers disappeared into them and gave off odd-colored smoke and scents. And she would work her magic. His dark eyes would light up, watching in fascination as she drew symbols in the ash before the hearth and murmured special words in a language that he couldn't understand. But it sounded beautiful to him, always. She was beautiful.

Doom lurked in the shadows though, unforeseen and just at the edge of their consciousness, but as the months passed it crept closer in. It began with the black expressions that would cross Reverend Crane's face when he looked at his wife over the dinner table or from the doorway of Ichabod's bedroom as she tucked him into bed and soothed him on stormy nights when the thunder frightened him. Then one day the reverend was interrogating his mother, twisting her arm and throwing her to the ground. There was an open bible on the floor and he was forcing her to read it.

Then he took her away. Ichabod followed him at a distance as he dragged her into the sanctuary of the church, along the long carpeted aisle to the ominous red door. He sank down between two of the back pews as his parents disappeared through that door and into the room there. His father had made it clear that this room behind the pulpit was forbidden to him, and he'd never been inside.

Hidden low between the pews he waited for them to emerge from the room. Time passed and night fell, and the church darkened. Ichabod still waited. It grew late and he was overcome with sleepiness. He didn't know how long he dozed there; he woke up suddenly, imagining that he'd heard wailing and sat up, peering over the top of the pew. Day had begun to break and thin beams of orange streamed through the east windows of the church. Fully awake now he listened intently, but the sound that he thought he'd heard was gone.

The red door to the back room opened soon after and Reverend Crane emerged. Ichabod dropped down to the floor and below eye-level again as his father came down the aisle, alone. His mother hadn't come out of the room. He remained silent and stock still as the reverend passed the row in which he hid and walked to the exit. The moment he was gone Ichabod leaped up and hurried down the aisle to the red door, eager to go to his mother regardless of the fact that the room was off-limits to him; and wondering why she'd chosen to stay behind.

**oooOooo**

Ichabod was still screaming when his father appeared and seized him by the arm in a vise-like grip. He began to drag him out of the room and down the aisle of the church. Blood streamed from his hands and he was vaguely aware of the throbbing pain in them, but he seemed to see and feel everything from a great distance. He had a vague memory of steel piercing his palms and his mind was filled with red. Red hands, a river of red that covered _her_. And a fleeting image of her as she fell forward from an odd-looking metal cabinet.

"Foolish boy!" the reverend snapped furiously, beginning to shake him roughly by his arm. "Look what you did to yourself! How many times have you been told to never go into that room? It serves you right!"

They were outside now and Reverend Crane was pulling him toward the house, which stood adjacent to the church.

"Stop your confounded screaming!"

But the boy couldn't stop himself. He was only barely conscious that his father had even spoken to him, and minutes later his father's other hand came down across his face, delivering a terrible blow to his cheek.

The shock of the blow was enough to silence him. For a moment the world around him suddenly became sharp and clear. Then everything went black.

A few days later he woke up from complete and utter darkness. Somehow he knew this was an important day. It was morning and his father's stern voice pierced his deep slumber. He was aware of the throbbing and itching of his palms, the bandages on his hands and the sound of the light drizzle pattering against the roof and the window. There was a bruise on his cheek where his father had struck him and he could feel it, sore and tender. And he felt the empty aching inside of him as he realized that _she_ was gone.

Boiling clouds loomed over the earth but the early morning rain had stopped and the threatening storm remained at bay while they were in the cemetery. Ichabod stood numbly behind Reverend Crane, still in a daze and only vaguely aware of the sights and sounds around him. The reverend read from a bible. Several men were gathered at the gravesite, town elders and coffin bearers, all dressed in black and looking solemn. Ichabod stared perplexedly at his bandaged hands and tried to remember in vain exactly how he'd injured them. His father finished reading and a chorus of soft unison murmurs followed, then the men lowered the coffin into the ground. It made a thud as it hit the bottom of the grave, six feet down, and the men with shovels began to pour in dirt to cover it.

Ichabod fainted.

**oooOooo**

He lived in darkness again for several weeks then. His slumbers were a black landscape of fear and his dreams were filled with images that remained just out of his reach when he came out of them. Sometimes through a haze he saw hands reach out for him and faces looming above him. A buzz of disembodied voices surrounded him always but he could never hear the words that they spoke. At times he would try to discern what they said but before long he would tire and slip back into unconsciousness.

Then one day he woke up and his head was clear again. He perceived with perfect clarity his room and the sunlight streaming in the window. Ichabod sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He paused then, his thoughts drifting for a minute to some place that he couldn't recall when he came to himself again. Shaking his head he stood up and padded over to the window, opening it and gazing out at the lovely morning.

There was a bird chirping nearby. Ichabod recognized this particular bird's song and a smile played around his lips as he began to search the branches of the tree that stood right outside his window. But he looked for the bright red plumage in vain; the cardinal had managed to hide itself among the leaves so well that even in all its brightness it couldn't be seen. A painful heaviness suddenly settled in Ichabod's chest and he shut the window and turned away, moving back to the bed and sitting down.

The edge of an elusive memory flitted into his mind and he brought his hands up in front of his face and stared at his palms. They were bare and there were several rows of evenly placed indentations on the palms of both hands. He tried to remember where the marks had come from but his head began to hurt and he suddenly felt tired again.

Ichabod lay down again then and pulled the covers up to his chin, closing his eyes. In just a few minutes he was fast asleep once more.

**oooOooo**

Tears were streaming down his face by the time Ichabod finished speaking.

Husband and wife sat together in silence for a long time after that. His face was buried in her chest now and her bosom was damp from his tears. Her arms were still wound tightly around him and she stroked his hair tenderly.

"You were only a small child," she finally said gently. "That was the only way you could cope and survive."

He nodded slightly. She reached down and took his hand, bringing the open palm up to her lips and kissing it.

"Every single object in that room was some sort of torture device," he sighed, raising his head after a time. "I'll never understand."

"It was inevitable that you would hurt yourself in a room like that. And the chair with the spikes was behind you, out of your line of sight."

"Yes. When I opened the iron maiden and saw my mother in there…covered with blood…I fell backward…I was in shock. I put my hands out behind me to brace myself from the fall, but it was the spiked chair that I…" he trailed off. "He was so angry at me…he didn't even care that I'd been injured."

Katrina squeezed him tightly. "He was angry because you discovered the truth. Of course he never wanted you to know and his original intention was to keep it hidden from you."

"But he would have had to explain to me that she was dead at some point."

"True, but he didn't have to tell you how she died. If you hadn't seen her he would have probably told you a lie."

"And it only got worse after that," he continued. "He was always so rigid and stern, but after that…I couldn't do anything, I couldn't live without incurring his fury. If I moved it enraged him and he beat me…for I was undisciplined and a distraction to him. Yet if I remained still he beat me and accused me of idly dreaming. No matter what I did he became infuriated and there was always harsh retribution. He just…hated me. And I hated him."

He groaned as he heard these last words pass through his lips, feeling ashamed.

"Even now, after he has passed away, I cannot find it in myself to say something kind about him."

"You're not to blame, Ichabod. And he didn't hate you. When he looked into your face he saw your mother in you. You must look like her."

Ichabod sat up slowly. She shifted with him, keeping one arm around his shoulders.

"I suppose I resembled her in some way," he responded thoughtfully. "I have always hoped that there is more of her than him in me."

"Don't you see? Every time he looked at you he was reminded of what he did and he was filled with remorse and guilt. That was what infuriated him so."

"You didn't know him, Katrina. He was a cruel, self-righteous tyrant who justified his actions with religion and false virtue. A hypocrite. I have never known him to feel guilt or remorse about anything."

Her hand moved down to the middle of his shoulders and she began to rub his back.

He sighed and added bitterly, "I'm certain he died without regretting a single thing that he did."

"And I don't suppose he ever apologized for anything," she murmured.

"Even if he did, it wouldn't be enough," he replied succinctly.

Silence stretched between them for several minutes again, each following their own train of thought. After a time Ichabod shook his head and spoke again.

"Of all the odd things," he murmured dejectedly. "Not just the fact that it was I who discovered the body of a man that happened to come from Hartford and who was carrying a Hartford newspaper on his person. But the paper was folded back and opened right to that page."

"Ichabod," she exclaimed suddenly, "is it possible that this man came here to find you? To bring you the news of your father? It would be yet another startling coincidence but still…anything is possible. What if he did?"

"Oh, God," he exhaled, feeling as if his heart had dropped into his stomach. In distress he brought his hands up to his face, covering it and closing his eyes. He sighed ruefully. "Dear God, I hope not. An errand undertaken in vain to begin with and made even worse by the fact that it cost him his life!"

"What will you do?"

He dropped his hands back into his lap and shook his head.

"Since it is I who discovered the body I'll be the investigator on the case," he answered finally after pondering for a short time. "Not that it means much, as my hands are tied as far as any real fact finding. I suppose it would be wise to contact my father's church and maybe the constabulary in Hartford. Someone there may have information on this man. Perhaps somebody knew that he was coming here and why. At least it provides some slim chance of identifying the victim. Right now he's being buried outside of the city limits and identified only as 'the unknown Hartford man'."


	3. Correspondence

_**2. Correspondence**_

_Her voice was warm and melodic, always playful._

"_Ichabod."_

_She approached him where he sat by the window and draped her arms around him, leaning down to kiss the top of his head._

"_Still dreaming by the window, my little love?"_

"_Look, Mother," he said happily, pointing. "A cardinal."_

"_A baby cardinal. See how small it is?"_

_They remained there together listening to the melodic high-pitched chirping and gazing at the tiny patch of bright red that was perched on the branch of the tree right outside of Ichabod's bedroom window, he sitting in the chair before the sill leaning forward with his arms folded on top of it, she standing behind him with her arms around him. The little bird fluttered its wings but didn't take flight, and Ichabod wondered if the bird was only just learning to fly. It turned its head this way and that in quick, jerky movements, singing all the while. After a few minutes it took wing and flew off._

"_I know how hard it is for you to be stuck inside all day," she said, running a tender hand through his hair. "At least it finally stopped raining now."_

"_Yes."_

"_Did you finish reading all the books you borrowed from the library?"_

_He nodded. "I read one of them twice."_

"_That's my little scholar," she laughed warmly. "I'll go into town tomorrow while you're in school and see if I can find some new ones that you haven't read yet."_

_She ruffled his hair then patted his arm._

"_Come. Now that it's stopped raining we can go for a little walk outside. You'll have to leave off lying in the grass today but it's nice and warm out now and we can still pick flowers. What do you think?"_

"_Alright."_

During the months following his mother's death and the injury to his hands Ichabod continued to pick wildflowers everyday in the afternoons when he returned from school. Often he would sit on the grass in the clearing where they'd spent their afternoons, tying the flowers he'd picked into bouquets and waiting for her to appear again. When the sun began to set he returned home, leaving the bouquets behind so she would find them and know that he'd waited for her as long as he could. Sometimes his father came out to look for him before the sun began to set and dragged him home by the ear when he found him, scolding him for idling about in the garden or the woods.

Now as he looked back on those days he wondered how he so easily fooled himself. Somehow, in the weeks following that morning he woke up with a clear mind, he managed to deny reality and convince himself that she had gone away somewhere for some reason but would return soon; so he waited for her each day. His mother had filled the house with warmth and laughter and beauty. After she was gone life became cold, austere and severe; loveless. It was filled with beatings and scoldings, criticism and cruelty, and his foolish daydreams were never going to change that.

"How old were you when you left home?"

Katrina's voice brought him back to the present once more.

"Hmm? Oh, I…was fifteen. I had no money, only one bag with clothes and books, and some food. It took weeks for me to reach New York."

"You didn't travel on foot, did you?"

"Of course. I couldn't pay for a coach."

"When did you start off? Was it in the spring?"

"Yes. I wasn't so foolish as to set off in the middle of winter. It was warm enough out and I traveled many miles each day. On clear mild nights I could sleep outside if I couldn't find a place with a roof, but if I found an open barn along the way I would take shelter in it. Sometimes, especially when I reached larger towns, I offered to work in exchange for a meal and lodging for the night. Eventually I stowed away on one of the boats bringing food and cargo down the Hudson River to New York, and finally made it to the city."

"Then you at least met some people who were kind to you along the way?"

"Some," he murmured, recalling those days of wandering, nights of sleeping in strange places, often with no shelter from the elements. Fear and anxiety were constant companions, even when he encountered hospitality and kindness. "I was especially lucky when I first arrived in the city. There were a couple of people that were very good to me and they made a crucial difference. Nevertheless it was all very frightening."

"I can imagine," she answered softly.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her arm draped around his shoulders and her gentle fingers running through his hair.

"Your father never came to look for you?"

"No. I don't know that he had any idea where to look for me." He sighed and opened his eyes. "At least not at that time. It doesn't matter really."

"In his own way I'm sure he worried and wondered about you."

Ichabod sighed again and stared into the empty space in front of him. Melancholy settled in his chest like a great weight. He found himself wishing he had kept that newspaper instead of leaving it in the victim's coat pocket as evidence. The High Constable didn't care a bit about evidence, nor did the Burgomaster or anyone else, and he felt an odd longing to read his father's obituary again. He'd only read through it once before tucking the paper back into the coat pocket. Now he wanted to read and reread it, to absorb everything that the newspaper said about him, to attempt to comprehend how other people could hold this image of his father as a pillar of a community when all he knew was the tyrant.

His eyes shut again and he tried to picture the page, hoping to conjure the words and make them appear before his closed eyes. All he could see was the headline, its large bold letters. The obituary had mentioned him, he remembered that, though the mention was quite surprising and seemed strange to him.

Katrina squeezed his shoulders then withdrew her arm from around him. He opened his eyes upon feeling the sudden lack of her touch and support.

"It's growing late and I need to finish preparing dinner," she announced, rising to her feet. "I left poor Stephen to look after the food on the fire."

"I'm not very hungry," Ichabod muttered dejectedly.

"I cooked chicken for dinner tonight, just the way you like it, and you're eating it. No matter what is happening, it will do you no good to skip meals."

"Stephen will be eating most of that chicken."

She threw him a playfully cross look then bustled out of the room. Ichabod remained sitting on the couch for a few minutes, staring after her. Then he stood up and followed her to the kitchen.

**oooOooo**

His investigation of the attack on the Hartford victim took the usual course unfortunately, in that Ichabod's superiors grew impatient with the fact that he still didn't even have one suspect and insisted that he was wasting his time with his 'experimentations' in criminal detection. After four days he was asked to appear before the High Constable.

"We have many unsolved cases, Constable Crane," he told him sternly. "There are criminals to be apprehended and the streets have to be patrolled, especially with the Eldridge trial coming before the court at the end of the month. We're going to be charged with keeping order, both during those proceedings and afterward when the citizens run amok because they don't like the verdict; a task that the military should be charged with, not the constabulary, if you ask me. I don't want you wasting time on a lost cause. I've already humored you and allowed the body to be buried at cost to the city rather than burned. The Burgomaster was not at all pleased to hear about that."

"With all due respect this case is not a lost cause yet," Ichabod replied in a strong voice, determined to make his opinion known but keenly aware that he was dangerously close to crossing a line again. The Eldridge criminal trial was very high profile. There was coverage in the newspapers every day and the papers didn't merely report the facts; they sensationalized the case and the people involved. Due to the brutal and shocking nature of the crime for which Eldridge was being tried, and the involvement of several powerful upper class men in his defense, the public was in an uproar and the journalists were fueling it. Every citizen in New York, whatever side they took, seemed to feel invested in the case and its outcome. High Constable Warwick was correct; the task of keeping order during the trial would be huge. But as far as Ichabod was concerned that did not make this other human being's violent murder any less relevant or important, though he was as yet unidentified. "Naturally the witness or witnesses to this crime will not come forward but…"

"If there were any witnesses," his superior corrected him, placing heavy emphasis on the word 'if'.

"I beg pardon, but there is a very good chance that at least one person witnessed this crime. The victim's shoes were stolen. It's possible that the person who took them saw what happened."

"It's also possible that the person who stole his shoes was the killer. Or that the thief merely stumbled upon the body long after the murder had occurred."

"That is true and I am taking all of that into consideration. But I should like the opportunity to investigate each one of those possibilities…"

"You have been investigating this for nearly a week and you have no suspects, no witnesses, no leads."

"I've written a letter to the constabulary of Hartford already, and am waiting for a reply," Ichabod continued, doing his best to mask his frustration. Four days was not nearly a week, after all. "Perhaps we can track down someone there who knew him, and more importantly knew he was coming to New York. At the very least we can identify the body then. But perhaps we can also shed light…"

"You've already written them?"

"Yes."

The High Constable frowned. "You should have asked permission before contacting any authorities that are outside of this jurisdiction. Or at the very least kept me apprised of your activities."

Ichabod fell silent. It had not occurred to him that he needed to gain permission; and given that the High Constable considered his activities a waste of time he never guessed that he'd want to be kept apprised of anything that he did, short of bringing before him the men that he arrested and otherwise staying out of his way.

"Still," his boss continued after a pause. "Perhaps they will be able to figure out who this is and you will finally let it be. You have not received a response yet?"

"No, but I only wrote three days ago. The journey itself is several days in only one direction, so it will be a few days for them to receive it, respond and for the response to reach me."

His superior eyed him intently for a few minutes. Then he nodded and waved a hand dismissively.

"In the mean time I'm ordering you to suspend any further investigation on this case. Stay on your beat and in the present while you're waiting on your response."

"I shall," Ichabod replied, suppressing a sigh.

Difficult and maddening as it was Ichabod kept to his beat and refrained from actively pursuing his investigation while on duty. After another week or so he still hadn't received a response from Hartford's constabulary. But on the twenty-second of March he received a letter from a man named Geoffrey Latham. Mr. Latham said very little about himself but claimed to have known his father well. He advised that he had urgent business with Ichabod and would be arriving in New York on the heels of his letter, by the morning of the twenty-fourth of March.

**oooOooo**

"I'll open up the guest room and have it spruced up," Katrina volunteered enthusiastically as she continued to hurry about, setting the table and preparing supper. The prospect of an out-of-town visitor was apparently exciting to her.

"He may have already made arrangements to stay at an inn," Ichabod replied. He sat in a chair at the table and as he talked he watched her bustle about the kitchen, now at the counter slicing sausages, now moving over to the table to set down a plate of freshly baked rolls, now back at the hearth lifting the lid over the pot in which tonight's specialty was cooking and expertly giving it a few stirs with a long spoon. "As I said, he didn't provide any information in his letter. Only that he knew my father and he had urgent business with me."

"Did he mention anything about the man that you are still trying to identify?"

"No, but his presence in New York may provide an opportunity to exhume the body."

"Well, if Mr. Latham hasn't made arrangements for lodging he will certainly be welcome here."

Ichabod frowned. Katrina sidled up to him and leaned down, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"I know it is unexpected and may be somewhat inconvenient but I don't mind, Ichabod. Really."

A wan smile played about his lips and he turned to look at her then nodded. "There was a time when I was an inconvenient guest; although I was somewhat expected."

She smiled warmly and leaned down to kiss him again, this time on the lips. He began to curl an arm around her waist, intending to pull her onto his lap but she slipped away before he could grasp her. She laughed playfully and glided back to the hearth.

"Later," she mouthed to him as young Stephen Masbath entered the kitchen softly.

"Do you need help?"

"Supper is nearly ready. Sit down and I'll serve it in just a minute…oh! I meant to buy cider…"

"I'll go out and buy it," the boy offered eagerly. "There is a shop around the corner that should still be open."

"Thank you, Stephen."

"Here." Ichabod reached into his pocket and drew out money. Stephen took it and hurried out the front door.

Katrina grabbed two pot-holders and removed the large pot from the hearth. A cloud of steam half obscured her face momentarily as she lifted the lid and set it aside. She removed what looked like a large cooked leaf and set it on the counter, then drained off the water.

"That is one thing I miss about Sleepy Hollow," she remarked, beginning to mash whatever had been cooking in the large pot. "Clean water from a well. Even boiling it and allowing it to cool before drinking it doesn't improve the taste of New York City water. It's alright for cooking but it's much too brackish to drink."

"A good majority of New Yorkers drink gin for that very reason."

She made a face. "I tried gin once, at one of my cousin's parties. It was vile."

"I agree," he laughed.

He watched her stir in butter and milk.

"What did you cook?"

"Stamppot. I hope you like it," she answered, adding in the slices of sausage and mixing. "A lot of Dutch food is so much more…sour…than the English food you're probably used to. But this won't be."

"I've liked everything else you've tried out on me in these past three months," he told her, smiling tenderly. "Speaking of which, three days from now will make exactly three months that we've been married. I don't know if 'anniversary' is the proper term but…"

His wife set aside the pot momentarily and came over to him. He reached for her waist and this time she allowed him to pull her onto his lap. She laced her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his.

"Happy Anniversary," she whispered between kisses.

"We'll have to plan something special," he murmured, caressing her cheek.

The sound of the front door opening signaled Stephen's return, and Katrina quickly slipped off of Ichabod's lap and went back to stirring the stamppot. Stephen entered the kitchen with a large jug of cider.

"We may have a guest staying with us in a day or two," Ichabod told him when they were all seated and Katrina had served each of them a heaping plate of what appeared to be potatoes and green leafy vegetables mashed together, with sausage mixed in.

"A family member?"

"No, he's a visitor to New York, who is coming here on business."

"He's choosing a bad time to come to the city, isn't he?" the boy observed quietly.

Ichabod raised his head abruptly and stared at Stephen quizzically.

"With the Eldridge trial coming up so soon, I mean," he explained. "The mood in the streets is quite heated these days."

"Ah. Yes." Ichabod stole a cautious glance at Katrina. He'd been very careful thus far to refrain from discussing this gruesome crime in front of her, worried that it would upset her by its very nature, but he'd never spoken of his concern to Stephen. Later, when he had a moment, he would have to talk to him about it.

"Tempers will be flaring even more when the trial begins," she remarked, meeting his gaze. "You needn't be so over-protective of me, Ichabod. I don't need to be shielded from everything. Anyway, it's impossible to go to any corner of this city without hearing people talking about the case, and I read the papers."

"The confounded papers are making things worse," he muttered gruffly, stabbing a slice of sausage with his fork. "Those articles are one-sided and in addition to swaying the public they will bias the twelve men who are to serve on the jury. Fair trial indeed."

"As readers we're as much at fault I suppose. We buy and read those papers after all, and we allow ourselves to be swayed one way or the other rather than truly scrutizining the facts and drawing our own conclusions. But even here in New York I don't imagine the average person has ever encountered such a hideous crime, so people are captivated by it even while it repels them. You have not been involved in any way, have you?"

He shook his head. "Mr. Eldridge has many important and powerful friends, and I am considered a nuisance. My superiors do not find that to be a desirable combination. They don't credit my methods of fact-finding and detection anyway."

She set down her fork and reached over to him, grasping his forearm and squeezing it affectionately. "The fools."

"That is politics for you," Ichabod sighed.

"How long is the trial expected to last?"

"I don't know. Maybe two or three days. If Mr. Eldridge didn't have so many rich and powerful friends pulling strings and influencing the men who write those articles he would have been handed over to a mob by now. I don't for a moment condone mob scenes; I only wish that it wasn't merely privilege alone that was preventing it."

"Yes, I've noticed the shift in view lately. A few weeks ago the articles expressed sympathy for that poor girl. Now they are…they have been painting a different picture of her. It's repulsive."

Ichabod nodded, frowning. "It is indeed. And the jury will most likely acquit."

"Do you believe he's guilty, Ichabod?"

"I don't know honestly. I've had nothing to do with this case and I have not reviewed the evidence at all. With all my heart I wish for that poor young woman to have justice, even if she is not alive to see it."

"As do I," she said softly, giving his arm another squeeze then releasing it.

"But I do not want to see an innocent man punished just so people can feel that they've had retribution either. It's the methods that I object to. Defaming this young woman's name and reputation so vilely…it's reprehensible. Even if the things they say about her are true, and I do not believe for a moment that they are, it does not dismiss or lessen what happened to her. Her background does not absolve her attacker of anything. Nobody deserves to experience what she..." Ichabod trailed off when he caught sight of the amused look on Katrina's face. He sighed. "There, you see? This is not a pleasant topic for dinner conversation at all and here we are caught up in it."

"You're a very passionate debater, Ichabod," she replied and laughed mirthfully. But there was admiration in her eyes too.

"I'm sorry," Stephen spoke up sheepishly. "It's my fault. I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright." Ichabod reached over and patted his arm reassuringly. "I suppose it's on everyone's mind."

Katrina smiled at Stephen warmly. "Besides, you only made a passing remark. I'm the one who actually initiated the conversation."

"Well, I suppose you couldn't resist after the look I gave you," Ichabod said with an amused smile. "I should know better than to challenge you, Katrina."

"Anyway, if and when our guest arrives we'll make him very comfortable."

Ichabod nodded, refraining from expressing the sentiment that a part of him hoped Mr. Latham would choose to lodge at an inn for the length of his stay. It wasn't that he begrudged offering hospitality to an out-of-town guest. But he felt anxious and wary about the fact that Mr. Latham had said so little about himself in his letter. Other than the fact that he claimed to have known the Reverend Crane very well Ichabod had no idea who he was or what his vocation was, yet alone what he could possibly want from him.


	4. First Impressions

_**3. First Impressions**_

"Constable Crane."

Ichabod's spine stiffened reflexively at the sound of High Constable Warwick's sharp summons. He had only just arrived for his duty shift and could not fathom what he had done to warrant his superior's irritation this early in the day. Adjusting his coat absentmindedly, a nervous habit, he approached the High Constable's desk.

"A message just arrived for you, Constable Crane." He held the sealed message out. Ichabod stepped closer and took the paper from his hand.

"Thank you."

He turned and walked to his own desk in the back room. Once seated there he broke the wax seal and unfolded the sheet of paper. His eye roved down to the bottom of the page, pausing over the signature. Geoffrey Latham. Of course. Today was the twenty-fourth of March. According to the note Mr. Latham had arrived in New York the previous evening and had immediately taken a room at the City Hotel. Given the late hour and his exhaustion after the long journey he'd decided to wait until this morning to make contact. He requested a meeting as soon as was convenient for Ichabod.

Minutes later Ichabod had written and sealed his response advising Geoffrey Latham that he would be available to meet him at his hotel at midday. He stepped out into the street and found a messenger to deliver the note. The boy took the paper and the coins Ichabod handed him and ran off.

There was paperwork to prepare that morning. Given his usual experiences with the High Constable and the Burgomaster he wanted to be sure that he took all the necessary steps and provided all of the proper documentation. Here in the city exhuming a body could not be as informal as it was in Sleepy Hollow, where he only had to ask a few men from the town to help him dig up the graves. Just as the High Constable had charged certain men with burying the body and marking the grave, at cost to the city of New York, so would he have to hire certain men to dig up the grave. He therefore wrote a request to exhume the body of the "Hartford man" in great detail and in triplicate; one copy for High Constable Warwick, one for the Burgomaster and one for his own record. In that request he noted that there was a man named Geoffrey Latham just arrived from Hartford who might possibly be able to identify the body, and he advised that they were meeting that afternoon.

High Constable Warwick frowned at him when he approached and handed him a copy of the request. He perused it quickly then glanced up at Ichabod with a sour expression.

"So, someone has finally come forward to identify this man?"

"A man from Hartford contacted me. He arrived in New York last night and contacted me this morning. I'm going to meet him now. It's possible that he will know the victim. I have a copy of this request for the Burgomaster as well, which I will submit tomorrow during the morning hearings."

"Very well," his superior replied grumpily. "We'll see what he has to say about exhuming the body."

Ichabod didn't reply.

"And after your meeting I expect you to be back on your beat. The streets need patrolling and we are forever shorthanded."

It was noon when Ichabod left the Watch House and made his way up Broadway to the City Hotel. He had no description of Mr. Latham but fortunately his own appearance would be obvious to the other man since he was wearing the conspicuous silver-buttoned black uniform that all constables wore. Minutes after he entered the lobby he was approached by a well-dressed man, who was a good seven or eight inches taller than him.

"Constable Crane, I presume?"

"None other," Ichabod replied. "And I presume you are Mr. Latham."

The man held out his hand, and Ichabod reached out and grasped it firmly. They shook hands cordially then Mr. Latham gestured in the direction of a doorway.

"There is a dining room in the hotel, but I think we'll drink a better cup of coffee in one of the coffee houses." His voice was gruff, husky, but his manner was pleasant enough. "If I'm not mistaken the Tontine is not far from here."

Ichabod frowned involuntarily.

"From your expression I gather that you're not particularly fond of the Tontine."

"The Tontine is extremely crowded and noisy at this time of the day. Perhaps there is a place that is closer and quieter for us to sit..."

"Very well, we can sit in the hotel's dining room then."

He followed his new acquaintance to the hotel's small dining room, making a mental note of all that he had observed about him at first glance. Latham was a large bulky man, tall with a thick muscular, athletic build, and he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair was blonde and worn pulled back in a pigtail, he had pale skin and piercing icy blue eyes that made Ichabod vaguely uncomfortable when he first beheld them. It was Mr. Latham's dress that really raised his eyebrows however, for a reason that he couldn't quite put his finger on. His clothing was of the latest European fashion and similar to what Ichabod wore when he wasn't in uniform; elegant black instead of bright colors, long trousers instead of old fashioned britches, a long black coat with no frills. Unlike Ichabod, however, Latham's attire also included a fancy cane. It was clearly a decorative accessory that he carried only for the purpose of affecting a sophisticated appearance, a pretense, for he moved with ease and had no practical need of it.

They took a seat at a table in the corner and Latham beckoned to one of the many waiters.

"Coffee for you? Or do you prefer tea?"

"Coffee, thank you."

The waiter approached their table and his companion ordered two coffees.

"I'm sorry for your recent loss, Constable Crane," he began when the waiter had moved off.

"Thank you," Ichabod replied softly.

"I attended your father's church and handled many of his business affairs, both vocational and personal. Deacon Calhoun, who was the assistant to your father and will fill his post temporarily, passed on to me the letter you sent to the church a few weeks ago. He recognized your name, of course. We both knew that the reverend had a son, a son he hadn't seen in many years." He paused and his steady gaze settled on Ichabod, who remained silent, waiting for him to go on. "There are some business affairs to put in order, some which will involve you now that I've managed to locate you."

"I'm afraid I don't view my father's business affairs as pertaining to me in any way. I have not seen him in many years. If this was the sole reason for your journey then it was for naught. I apologize for that."

"It is not my only reason for coming, though I'll admit it was the main one. In addition, I was struck by your mention in the letter of the body you found. A man that I know, named Jonathan Drake, left Hartford at the beginning of March, just after Reverend Crane passed away. He was bound for New York City. It occurred to me that he might be the man you found."

"Was he searching for me? The newspaper that the man in question carried was open to the page with my father's obituary. For that reason it occurred to me that he might have come here to find me, to bring me the news."

"Well, I can't say whether Jonathan Drake came to find you or not. He came to New York quite often, presumably on business. Even if he did come to find you I'm sure that wasn't the only reason that he came to New York. Most likely he had another reason for his journey."

"Which was?"

"I don't know exactly, but as I said it was most likely business related."

"This morning I put in a request to my superiors to exhume the body of the victim carrying the Hartford paper. Perhaps you can positively identify him. In the mean time," Ichabod said, withdrawing from his coat pocket his ledger, pen and ink, "please describe Mr. Drake for me. Hair color, height, build, anything you can tell me about his physical appearance."

Geoffrey Latham's description of Jonathan Drake matched the appearance of the victim, but Ichabod decided not to mention that to him at this time. He merely took notes.

"Did…does Mr. Drake have a family?"

"No, he's a bachelor."

"What about acquaintances in New York?"

"None that I'm aware of."

The waiter returned to their table and set a cup of coffee down in front of each of them.

"Any enemies here?" Ichabod continued questioning his companion when the waiter had gone.

"I should think not." Latham picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee.

"You know him very well then?"

"Well enough. We both attend the same church and we frequent some of the same places. He's a decent fellow. It would be a shame if something has happened to him."

"And what is his profession?"

"He's a businessman."

"Would you be more specific? What business is he in exactly?"

"We never discussed it in detail."

"I see." Ichabod paused, perplexed, then he made a note and set his pen aside. He picked up his own cup.

"You said that you were going to exhume the body, Constable?"

"I've submitted a request to do so. Until I receive permission from my superiors I will not be able to do anything. The body is buried in a graveyard outside of the city." He took a sip of his coffee.

"How is it?"

Ichabod looked at him quizzically.

"The coffee."

"It's just fine, thank you."

"Good. Hotels and inns are not necessarily noteworthy for their cuisine, and this one is no exception, but at least they can make a decent cup of coffee or tea."

"Is your room here comfortable?"

"Comfortable enough."

It was on the tip of Ichabod's tongue to offer Mr. Latham a room in his home, a room that Katrina had been preparing for that purpose. He would be more comfortable and he would eat better meals; no doubt Katrina's cooking was vastly superior to the hotel's daily bill of fare, and she would want Ichabod to invite him. But Ichabod couldn't get the words of invitation past his lips.

"How long were you planning to stay in New York, Mr. Latham?" he asked instead.

"I hadn't made plans so far ahead. You will need me to view the body. I'll stay at least until I've done so. After that, if there isn't any further assistance that I can offer I'll return to Hartford."

Ichabod paused, distracted, and his mind wandered briefly. Geoffrey Latham had done nothing, had said nothing that should offend or repel him. Yet he irrationally felt a strong dislike of him. Something about his manner suggested a certain evasiveness on his part despite his willingness to answer questions and Ichabod found himself feeling very suspicious of him, wondering what he might be up to. It was an odd conclusion to draw, he knew, since Latham had made the effort to contact him, rather than the other way around. Had he been scheming or guilty of any subterfuge it would stand to reason that he would not want to contact a member of the constabulary.

He brought his attention back to the present and took another sip of coffee before pressing on with his inquiry.

"So, after reading my letter you decided to contact me about Mr. Drake."

"That's right. When I read the passage about the body I immediately thought of Mr. Drake, who had left only a short time before your letter arrived. I was concerned."

Ichabod waited for him to continue.

"You asked if Jonathan Drake had enemies in New York City, Constable Crane. As far as I know he had none here, but one never knows. And of course, this may have not been the case in Hartford, or other parts of Connecticut. To be clear, I don't know of anyone who was his enemy, I had no suspicions; only a feeling in hindsight that something was not quite right."

"Do you believe someone may have followed him here from Hartford, to do him harm?"

"I'm not certain of that. It's possible. There were no identifying papers on your victim obviously. I assume that his money was also taken."

"Yes and his shoes. Fortunately the thief left his coat, or perhaps he had trouble maneuvering the body to remove it without tearing it. The newspaper that clued me in to the man's origins was in the pocket of that coat."

A sour expression settled on Latham's face momentarily then it passed quickly.

They finished their coffee and Ichabod stood up to take his leave.

"Well, I thank you for the coffee," he said.

Geoffrey Latham rose as well and reached out to shake his hand once more.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Constable Crane. Please contact me here at any time if you have further questions. And, of course, send word whenever you are ready for me to view the body."

"I shall."

"Constable, are you absolutely certain that you have no interest in your father's affairs? There is a will and you are in it."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Latham. I shall send word as soon as I receive permission to exhume the body."

**oooOooo**

When Ichabod stepped out of City Hotel after his meeting with Geoffrey Latham he was immediately accosted by Constable Jackson, who nearly collided with him. He had been hurrying up Broadway.

"Good," Jackson exclaimed upon seeing him. "We need all the help available. There's an altercation up at The Commons apparently."

The Commons and Park Row alongside the park was mobbed when they arrived. The air was filled with angry shouting and cursing, and Ichabod could see that several people had come to blows. Several constables were already pushing their way through, clubs poised to strike as they broke up the numerous scuffles. Ichabod followed Jackson into the thick of the throng praying that these overzealous constables with their weapons out would not make things worse. He didn't trust them any more than he did this unruly crowd.

As he made his way he picked up strains of people's exclamations and arguments.

"If he didn't have his influential friends and acquaintances he'd be in jail waiting for his trial to start like any other common murderer instead of sitting comfortably at home."

Ichabod cursed under his breath as he immediately ascertained that this was about the Eldridge case, and that Mr. Eldridge himself was possibly somewhere in the midst of this mob, trapped and under attack. He pressed forward, his eyes fixed anxiously on Jackson and the other constables.

The sudden sound of a gunshot stunned everyone to silence. Ichabod stared straight ahead and saw that Constable Thomas had reached the staircase leading up to the entrance of the Park Theater. His pistol was out and aimed straight into the air. A man stood behind him, wiping his bloody nose with a handkerchief. Ichabod had never seen James Eldridge before, but he deduced that he was looking at him now.

Now that the crowd was still it was easy for the constables to make their way toward the steps of the theater. People quietly stepped aside to let anyone in uniform through and Ichabod noticed that a few people around the edges were slowly dispersing, moving back out toward the street. Constable Whitten, one of the higher ranked constables on the force, had reached the stairs and he was already speaking to the crowd, advising them to cease and desist, and go about their business.

"He's a murderer!" someone shouted out.

"That's for the jury to decide, after they hear the evidence that's presented in court."

Ichabod was nearly at the front of the gathered crowd and the clearing before the theater steps. One by one people stepped aside. A short woman with blonde hair was walking toward him. For a moment Ichabod didn't register her face even though it was turned toward him and she was slowly inching her way in his direction, didn't notice that she'd suddenly frozen in place the minute she set eyes on him, nor did he observe the expression of guilt on her face. Then their eyes met and he saw her. He halted in his tracks and his jaw dropped.

Katrina's mouth opened too, as if she intended to speak, but no words came. She inched aside to allow him to pass, jostling the small person next to her who Ichabod now recognized to be Stephen Masbath. He approached and stood between them, taking each one of them by the arm wordlessly, his only thought being that he had to get them out of this crowd before a true riot erupted and they were injured or trampled to death. Later, when he returned home from work, he would make known his sentiments about the two of them involving themselves in such a scene.

She looked crestfallen, clearly taken aback by his sharp glance and reproachful expression. He firmly nudged both of them and gestured for them to walk in the direction that he'd just come from.

When they reached the edge of the park and cleared the crowd he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ichabod, I can explain," she began, when they had reached the safety of Broadway.

He held up his hand. "We'll talk about it later," he replied curtly. "I have to go back into that mob. Go home and stay there, both of you."

**oooOooo**

The aroma of the evening's supper wafted across his nose the moment he opened the front door and stepped into the hallway. He began to remove his boots.

"Ichabod?"

He could hear the tension in her voice. A minute later she appeared in the kitchen doorway where she hesitated for a minute before stepping into the hallway and approaching him. She leaned up to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. He bent down and returned the favor.

"How…how was the rest of your day?"

"I'm relieved to see you safely at home," he replied meaningfully.

She lowered her eyes momentarily. He removed his overcoat and hung it up in the closet.

"Dinner is almost ready," she told him, her gaze meeting his. "Did you manage to make contact with Mr. Latham? Today is the day…"

"Yes. He arrived last night and checked into City Hotel."

"Then he will not be staying with us…"

"No," he answered succinctly. Then he sighed wearily. "I'm going upstairs to change out of my uniform."

"Ichabod, about today…"

"Do you have any idea how frantic I was about you?" he blurted out. "How worried I've been all afternoon that you wouldn't make it home safely?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

He took a deep breath. "I'd prefer to talk about this further when I'm calmer. I'll speak with both of you after dinner."

Ichabod made his way past her and up the stairs, padding along the carpet in his stocking feet. The hearth in the bedroom was alive with fire, bathing the room with a soft amber glow. He tossed his bell on the bed then began to unbutton his uniform jacket. As he slipped the jacket off and draped it over the large chair in the corner the picture of Katrina's face filled his mind. She'd looked terribly distressed. Perhaps he was reacting too harshly but he'd been so fraught with concern all day.

The door opened and to his surprise Katrina stepped into the room.

"Stephen will finish readying the food," she explained hastily.

She sat on the edge of the bed, delicately moving aside the bell first.

"How was your meeting with Mr. Latham?"

"He agreed to view the body once I have permission to exhume it."

"Did he say anything about your father? I thought he mentioned that he knew him very well."

"My father's affairs have nothing to do with me," he replied curtly.

"But…"

"What on earth were you both doing there?" he burst out suddenly, rounding on her. "My God, Katrina, you could have been injured or worse! It's bad enough that you're reading about this awful case. I do not want you in the middle of a..."

Katrina reached out, for he was standing close to her now, and took both his hands in hers. He paused, catching himself.

"Will you allow me to explain, Ichabod?"

With a deep sigh he took a seat on the bed next to her and nodded.

She squeezed his hands. "I'm sorry that we gave you such a scare. It was by accident that we…I suggested to Stephen that the three of us might see a show at the Park Theater one evening. Today was a lovely day so we decided to take a walk to see the theater. We went inside to inquire about the program and when we stepped out again the crowd had already gathered. And we were trying to make our way out, especially after all of the constables came and the crowd had quieted somewhat. Ichabod, we would not intentionally seek out such a situation..."

Ichabod extracted his hands from her grasp and she drew hers back into her lap. He slipped an arm around her waist. Relief settled over her features as he drew her close and held her tenderly.

"No, of course you wouldn't."

"I'm sorry that we gave you such a scare," she repeated.

"No, you've nothing to be sorry about. I'm sorry for behaving so crossly with you. I should have at least heard your explanation before reacting so fiercely. I was so shocked and worried to find you there."

"I know."

She leaned her head against his shoulder and he began to gently run his fingers through her hair.

"The mood in the city is terrible these days. I wish you didn't have to be exposed to it. If you'd stayed in today…"

"If I stayed in any day I might be safer. But would you really prefer me to remain restricted to the house, never stepping outside, Ichabod?"

He shook his head. "Of course I wouldn't ask such a thing of anyone, certainly not of you. I wasn't…suggesting that at all. Please be careful though, Katrina. You've grown up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else. It's very different here."

Katrina raised her head and fixed him with an incredulous stare then she began to laugh.

"What pray tell is so funny?"

"You seem to forget that we had mob scenes in Sleepy Hollow too. I vaguely remember one revolving around you..."

"Well, it's not the same at all and you know it. The bodies around The Commons today numbered ten times that crowd in Sleepy Hollow."

"What happened? After we left, I mean."

"Once Constable Thomas fired the shot in the air people began to disperse. It was fairly easy to clear out the park then."

"Was that James Eldridge that I saw?"

"Yes. He was followed and then attacked by several outraged citizens who decided to take the law into their own hands."

"In two weeks it will all be over hopefully."

"If today's events are any indication I believe that even if he is acquitted he will be persecuted long after the verdict is given."

"I hope you're wrong about that."

"So do I."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Ichabod, what did Mr. Latham say about your father?"

"I did not wish to discuss my father with him therefore I ended the subject quickly when he introduced it."

She gazed up at him expectantly, patiently waiting for him to continue. The prospect of repeating Latham's words filled him with trepidation, the sense that if he spoke the words he would own the idea, a thing that he dreaded. He hesitated before finally telling her.

"There is a will apparently, and I am in it."

"Oh."

"I don't want anything from my father."

"I know. But…you must be at least a little bit curious."

"When Mr. Latham mentioned it to me I dismissed it."

He told her the details of the conversation that he'd had with Geoffrey Latham, even going so far as to comment on Latham's dress and the fact that he'd wanted to move their meeting to the Tontine Coffee House.

"What is significant about the Tontine Coffee House?"

"It is a place where men conduct financial business. Many of the activities are…not exactly ethical…or even legal. But the men who frequent the place and who are involved in these transactions are well connected politically. Some of them are senators. There is nothing to be done and the constabulary is forced to look the other way. Not that it would matter to the High Constable anyway. Anyway, it would seem Mr. Latham knows the place very well."

"You don't like him."

Ichabod shook his head. "No, I don't like him. At first I thought I had no logical reason to form such an opinion of him on first impression. However, perhaps it is this possible association with the Tontine…"

"How long will he be in New York?"

"It depends. He will remain here at least until he's viewed the body. But he intimated that he would stay if he could assist any further."

He shook his head and sighed in frustration.

"Why is it that I had to be the one to find this victim?" he muttered rhetorically.

Katrina reached up and stroked his hair tenderly, remaining silent. He already knew the answer to his question and she didn't need to speak of it.


	5. Coincidence

**_4. Coincidence_**

The weather in New York belied the fact that April was only a week away. When Ichabod opened the front door and gazed out onto the street he found that it had snowed during the night and the streets were covered with about two inches of white powder. Donning his boots, a heavy coat and a scarf and gloves he set off after receiving Katrina's parting kiss and went directly to the Court House. The Burgomaster would be hearing cases beginning at nine o'clock sharp. He had his superior's copy of his exhumation request and he intended to submit it as early as possible and present his case.

Geoffrey Latham might very well have been gifted with prescience. To Ichabod's great amazement his new acquaintance was already seated in the court room when he arrived, apparently there to observe the proceedings. Latham nodded to him as he passed by and Ichabod returned the greeting, feeling a surge of gratitude for Latham's presence would be an unexpected advantage.

When it was his turn to present his request to the Burgomaster Ichabod mentioned that the witness was in the court room and indicated Geoffrey Latham to his superiors. Mr. Latham stood up. After asking him a few questions the Burgomaster turned his attention back to Ichabod's written request that lay on the bench before him. He frowned sourly but picked up his pen, dipped it in ink and scribbled something on the paper, then lifted up the pages and scribbled on another paper beneath it. A moment later he handed one set of pages to the High Constable and the other down to Ichabod.

Ichabod gazed down at the sheets of paper that the Burgomaster had returned to him, which was the copy of his request to exhume the body that he'd submitted. At the bottom of the page in the white space of the margin was the date, the word "approved" and the Burgomaster's signature. He guessed that the High Constable had received the exact same order written on his copy of the request.

After advising Ichabod to see that the matter was taken care of in an inexpensive and discreet manner the Burgomaster dismissed him and called the next case.

"Good morning, Constable Crane," Geoffrey Latham greeted him, joining him on the front steps outside of the Court House.

"Thank you for making an appearance here, Mr. Latham. I have no doubt that your presence convinced my superiors and expedited the process."

"I'm happy to assist."

"I'll have to meet with the High Constable at the Watch House to make arrangements, and he won't be there until after all the cases have been heard. We'll need to hire men to dig up the grave, and most likely we'll have to do it at night. As you heard, my superiors want this carried out quietly and inconspicuously."

"Shall I meet you at the Watch House tonight then?"

"I'll send word when we're ready. Hopefully that will be tonight and the weather will cooperate. I should also tell you that the cemetery is on the outskirts of the city."

Latham departed in the direction of City Hotel and Ichabod began to walk in the direction of the Watch House.

"Constable Crane."

Ichabod started as a dirty and shabbily attired man came running up from behind him, now matching his pace on his right.

"Forgive me for eavesdropping, Constable Crane," he began somewhat breathlessly, "but I happened to be standing by while you were speaking to that gentleman outside of the Court House, which is how I learned your name."

"Yes?" Ichabod replied, moving off to the side to allow others to pass and to stop to speak with the stranger. The man stopped beside him, wiping a filthy sleeve across his forehead and catching his breath.

"Are you perchance related to a Hartford minister named Ely Crane?"

His blood froze the moment the man spoke this sentence. Ichabod stiffened visibly and stared at this stranger with eyes narrowed in suspicion. It was hard to see the man's features yet alone discern his age underneath the dirt and grime. Any hair that he might have had on his head was covered with a dirty grey cap and Ichabod couldn't see if there were streaks of grey there. Judging from the somewhat hunched posture and the way the ragged clothes hung on his body he guessed that the stranger was possibly in his middle age.

"Forgive me..." the man began then trailed off, glancing at Ichabod and shifting uncomfortably under the scathing look he was receiving.

"You are from Hartford I assume?" Ichabod asked, attempting to keep the tone of his voice cordial and under control.

"I am. I only asked because I recognized the name when I heard it…I attended the church where he preached at one time. I'm sorry, Constable. I didn't mean to upset you…"

Ichabod sighed and aware that he was glaring at the man he allowed his gaze to relax. "Very well. Was there something you wished to speak with me about besides the reverend?"

"Yes, sir. I'm in need of work and would like to offer my services. I heard you saying to that man that you need to hire men to dig up a grave."

"I'm afraid I still have to make the arrangements," Ichabod answered finally after studying the man for some time, his expression a mixture of suspicion, curiosity and also compassion, "and I'm not sure when the exhumation will take place. But I would be happy to give you the work if you are in need. Is there somewhere I can contact you?"

The man hesitated and Ichabod surmised that he was likely homeless. He was ragged and shivering; the clothes on his back were not warm enough, nor did he appear to have any clothes fit for the cold weather. There probably was no place to contact him, and Ichabod was about to suggest that he instead stop in at the Watch House at around five on the hour that evening and ask for him. But after another moment's hesitation the man surprised him.

"You can leave word for me at the Tontine Coffee House. The name is Geoffrey. Thomas Geoffrey."

Ichabod stared at him in silent disbelief for some minutes. The Tontine Coffee House was the last place he would expect to find this man or anyone else so unkempt and raggedly dressed. Of course there were other people besides the traders and politicians who spent time in and around that coffee house. Merchants, large and small, could be found there, as well as sailors registering their ships and cargo. Perhaps this man's former vocation brought him to that place in the past and, though down on his luck now, he had maintained contacts there.

For some reason though he found himself thinking of his meeting with Geoffrey Latham the day before, and an odd feeling came over Ichabod. It was all too coincidental. Latham wanted to conduct their short meeting in the Tontine Coffee House and now this stranger was referring him to the same place, the very next day. This combined with the fact that the man was from Hartford and had brought up his father upon approaching him struck Ichabod as something filled with meaning; a hidden meaning that he couldn't yet grasp.

"Is there something wrong, Constable?" the man asked.

"What?" Ichabod snapped out of his daze and shook his head. "Oh, no…no. Forgive me…Mr. Geoffrey. I shall contact you at the coffee house as soon as I require your services. My superiors want this done inexpensively as well as discreetly, so I cannot say yet how much they would be willing to pay you."

"I will take whatever they are willing to give. Perhaps I shouldn't admit that..."

"Well, I shall try my utmost to ensure that the pay is fair enough, Mr. Geoffrey."

"Thank you. I can bring one or two men with me for hire as well. You'll need at least two of us…"

"Yes. That will be fine. I suppose when I contact you at the Tontine I'll in essence be contacting him too."

"Thank you, Constable Crane. And again…I apologize for my question earlier. I truly meant no harm."

He turned to go.

"Wait, Mr. Geoffrey." Geoffrey turned back around and Ichabod reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. "Please take this. You can buy a coat to wear…it's still very cold out…"

Thomas Geoffrey held up his hand in a gesture of refusal. "Thank you, but that's alright. I prefer to work for my keep rather than take charity from another working man."

"Would you accept it as an advance payment for your labor then?"

"You're very kind, Constable, but that won't be necessary. Thank you again."

Ichabod stared after Thomas Geoffrey as he trudged off down the street in the direction that they'd come from, feeling somewhat perturbed and wondering how this encounter might relate to his dealings with Geoffrey Latham – and to his father. Something about the conversation he'd just had made him feel off balance. It would be an hour or so before the High Constable left the Court and arrived at the Watch House; that would give him time to sit at his desk, to think and take notes.

Or so he thought. Unfortunately the moment Ichabod returned to the Watch House he found the place in chaos. Men were hurrying out to the street with clubs and pistols drawn, ready to use at a moment's notice. Dozens of constables who usually worked the nightshift were among the group, apparently summoned in due to an emergency that Ichabod would learn about immediately.

"Crane," Constable Whitten barked out as soon as he caught sight of him. He sat behind the desk where the High Constable was usually perched. "Is the High Constable with you?"

"No, the Burgomaster is hearing cases until eleven o'clock this morning. High Constable Warwick is remaining at Court for the duration of that hearing."

"Hopefully he's there asking the Burgomaster for assistance from the military," one man remarked as he hurried past and out the front door.

Constable Whitten cursed profusely. "There is another disturbance at The Commons," he told him. "Damn it, I can't wait until this blasted Eldridge trial is finished. Go back to the Court House and deliver a message to the High Constable about The Commons. Then go directly to the park to assist the others. If pistols become necessary, your instructions are to fire into the air first, as we did yesterday. Let's try to get through this ordeal without killing anyone."

**oooOooo**

Katrina came hurrying out to greet him when he walked through the front door at eight o'clock.

"Ichabod." She threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. "What happened? You're home so late."

He returned her embrace and leaned down, kissing her on the lips.

"Forgive me, my love."

"Are you alright? I was worried about you."

"I'm sorry. There was another incident at The Commons today. It took hours to bring back order and peace, and then there were still duties that I had to take care of at the Watch House before I came home."

"Eldridge?"

"Yes," he sighed.

"You look exhausted."

Ichabod nodded absently, becoming aware of the overwhelming fatigue he was feeling the moment she remarked on it.

"I kept the food warm for you," she told him, extracting herself from his embrace and nudging him toward the kitchen. "Come in and have supper."

They walked down the hallway, arms around each other's waist. She walked to the stove and Ichabod sank wearily into his seat at the table, where a napkin and silverware were set for him.

"The constabulary is going to be working overtime trying to keep the city under control until long after this case is ended. They want to call in the military now."

She approached the table, setting down a plate heaped with food. "I'll bring you something to drink. Maybe it has become necessary, Ichabod."

"The military?"

"Yes."

"No," he replied vehemently, shaking his head. "It will make things worse and put more lives than ever in danger."

He picked up his fork and began to eat ravenously. Katrina returned to the table with a glass of cider, setting it down and taking her seat beside him.

"Easy," she exclaimed as she watched him. "You'll give yourself an upset stomach if you eat so fast."

"Mm," he grunted in acknowledgement.

"You didn't eat the lunch I packed for you, did you?" she reproached him gently.

"There was no time," he admitted between forkfuls.

"The day was that bad?"

With his appetite somewhat curbed now from the first several bites of food he paused to rest and lowered his fork. "You have no idea."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Later. How was your day?"

"Alright. I've been tutoring Stephen in Latin and French lately, in addition to the other subjects that we started teaching him when we first arrived here. It's amazing how he takes to languages – the way a duck takes to water."

"He's becoming quite a little scholar living here in the city," Ichabod chuckled lightly.

"Yes, he is. He's very bright, you know, and eager to learn. I'm proud of him."

"So am I."

"If he continues to excel in foreign languages perhaps he'll make a fine interpreter or ambassador when he grows up."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to provide him with the political connections he would need for such a profession. But he _is_ bright, and quite resourceful. If it's something that interests him I have no doubt that he'll find a way to do it."

He picked up his fork again and continued eating.

"I hope no one was hurt today."

"Unfortunately there were some people injured. James Eldridge was attacked, of course, and some of the constables were a bit too enthusiastic in their…crowd control tactics. One man was beaten nearly to a pulp by one of the more brutish constables. You have no idea how bad a situation can become when obtuse men are given weapons and the power to wield them against unarmed civilians."

When he had finished eating Katrina cleared the table. Ichabod remained in his chair for a time, watching her in silence as she washed and dried the dishes, her back to him as she worked. Then he pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

"I'm going up to the laboratory. I have some work to do."

"Alright," she answered, continuing with her chores. "But if you're still working in there after nine o'clock I'm coming up for you."

Ichabod laughed and went up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. She turned around now and leaned up to kiss him on the lips.

"I love you, Katrina," he murmured.

"I love you too." She pulled back then playfully hit his chest with the dish towel she was holding. "But I mean it. I'm going to drag you out of the laboratory if you're still working past nine o'clock. You need to rest."

He climbed the stairs to the laboratory on the top floor and withdrew the key from his pocket to unlock the room. In addition to thick volumes of journals and medical texts his laboratory contained shelves full of chemicals and materials, many which could be dangerous if handled by someone who didn't know what they were doing. For Katrina's and Stephen's own safety he kept the door locked and did not allow either of them into the room unless he was there. Leaving the door ajar behind him he went to settle himself down at his desk and took out his ledger. There hadn't been time to take notes immediately after his encounter with the stranger Thomas Geoffrey, and he felt it was important to make a record of it; somehow, perhaps by instinct, he linked in his mind Thomas Geoffrey with the case of the Harford man. Flipping the ledger open he thumbed through the pages until he found the notes that he'd made on the day he discovered the body and the newspaper with his father's obituary. After reading through everything he'd written on the case so far, including his observations of Geoffrey Latham, he took out pen and ink and turned to the first blank page in the book.

The exhumation of the body would take place before dawn the next morning and Geoffrey Latham would be there to view it.

"I have to inform Katrina about that," he murmured to himself.

He took a long deep breath and leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk and his chin in his hand. With his right hand he picked up his pen, dipped it in ink and dated the blank page before him. Both Geoffrey Latham and Thomas Geoffrey would be at the cemetery, and they might recognize one another. Then again, he thought, Mr. Geoffrey might be unrecognizable even to a close friend in his present state of dress and cleanliness – or lack thereof.

After finally returning to the Watch House when the job of curbing the mob had been completed and speaking with the High Constable he'd sent word to Geoffrey Latham at City Hotel and to Thomas Geoffrey at the Tontine Coffee House, advising them of the details for the exhumation and requesting that they meet in front of the Watch House at the appointed time. They responded to him at the Watch House, as he requested, which was a large part of the reason for his late arrival home; he was waiting there for their answers. He didn't want to give either of them his home address, for they could come here if they chose and find Katrina. Not that he expected that they wanted to harm his family, or him, but so strong was his dislike for one and suspicion of the other that he would not take even the slightest chance.

His mind drifted to the encounter he'd had on his return from the Court House with Thomas Geoffrey. Ichabod couldn't believe that it was a coincidence. While it was true that Mr. Geoffrey seemed to be searching for honest work there was something odd about the situation that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Why was he suddenly meeting every man from Hartford that was in New York, all of whom knew his father? It was truly puzzling to him. And what was Thomas Geoffrey doing just waiting around outside of the Court House? It seemed to him a peculiar place to loiter, and an even more peculiar place to be waiting for employment. Was he actually at the hearing? Hearings were open to the public after all, and there were always civilians who stopped in sometimes to observe their system of justice in progress. Perhaps he was simply looking for a place to sleep. A bench in an open court room often served that need for homeless men who came in during the day under the guise of observing. As long as the sleeper was quiet there was no harm in it. Then again maybe he'd been actively looking for Ichabod, seeking him out to speak with him about his father. But for what purpose?

Both Geoffrey Latham and Thomas Geoffrey had connections to the Tontine Coffee House, both were from Hartford, both knew his father. It was plausible, perhaps even probable, that they knew one another, though Mr. Geoffrey showed no sign that he knew Latham; in fact, he'd referred to him as the gentleman Ichabod had been speaking with when he approached him. So stunned had he been during his conversation with Mr. Geoffrey that he neglected to think to ask him if he'd recognized the gentleman, if he knew Mr. Geoffrey Latham. And as he replayed his conversation with the ragged stranger in his mind, hearing the man's voice and pronunciation, grammar and rhythm of speech, he realized that Mr. Geoffrey was an educated man, possibly from the upper class of Hartford. He spoke in a clipped, almost British accent, much like Ichabod's own accent. What circumstances had brought him to such a desperate state?

And what about his father? Were these two men merely part of his church community or was there more to it than that? Was it possible that through Latham and Geoffrey his father was somehow connected to the Tontine Coffee House? There was a will according to Mr. Latham, but Ichabod, though not interested in taking anything from his father even now, couldn't imagine what he would have to leave him. Reverend Crane had never been a rich man. He wasn't destitute and the family always had whatever they needed, but he was hardly well-to-do and was mostly subsidized by the church. Had he come into money through some dishonest scheme at the Tontine, with these two men?

A soft hand fell on his shoulder and Ichabod jumped in his chair, raising his head abruptly. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't heard his wife enter the laboratory.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. You didn't answer when I knocked on the door."

He sighed and put his hand to his chest, feeling his heart thudding beneath his fingers. "I…I didn't hear you."

She stroked his hair tenderly. "Are you alright? You look very troubled."

"I had another odd experience today," he answered after a pause. "Strange coincidences seem to be my lot these days."

Katrina pulled up one of the extra chairs in the room beside his and sat down. He turned in his own chair to face her. They gazed at one another in silence for a short time then she reached out and took his hands gently.

"So, who is Thomas Geoffrey?"

"I see you're still peeking at my ledger," he managed to say with a tinge of playfulness.

She smiled warmly and squeezed his hands. "So, who is he?" she pressed, not allowing him to veer off the subject.

"The latest coincidence to fall across my path."

Ichabod told her about his encounter with Thomas Geoffrey, beginning the story with his presentation of his case at the hearing and his thought that the strange man might have been there. He told her of all of the coincidences that he'd noted, and the thoughts he'd had about both men and about his own father's possible involvement in something illegal.

"You said that Mr. Latham was well-dressed. It doesn't seem possible that he would have anything to do with a homeless vagrant. And it does sound as if Mr. Geoffrey is homeless."

"But Geoffrey's accent, his manner of speaking…he sounds educated. I can't help thinking that at one time he must have been an investor, a trader at the Tontine Coffee House; and a peer of Mr. Latham."

"Maybe, as you say, he's merely fallen on hard times. Besides, as you pointed out, he saw you speaking with Mr. Latham outside the Court, yet he didn't make mention of him by name."

"That doesn't necessarily mean he _didn't_ know Latham when he saw him, though, only that he didn't offer the information as to whether he knew him or not. Something doesn't feel right. I can't even explain it right now, other than to say that I don't believe in so many coincidences. I'm beginning to wonder if all three men knew each other - Latham, Geoffrey and the deceased Hartford man that I've yet to identify." He sighed. "And all somehow connected to my father."

"Yes," she replied thoughtfully. "It is odd. As if the universe is converging on you and forcing you to face the issue of your father."

Ichabod sighed again, feeling as if a great weight were in his chest.

"These three men may likely know each other because they all attended the same church, and there may be no other connection. Or you could be right that there is. Either way it seems highly unlikely to me that your father was involved in business arrangements with any of them, Ichabod."

"Still, I have to consider all possibilities to solve this crime. However, one thing I'm certain of now: the unidentified Hartford man did come to New York City to find me. Whether he is Jonathan Drake, as Geoffrey Latham believes, or someone else from my father's congregation – whoever he is, he came here to inform me in person about my father's death."

She squeezed his hands once more. "You said you have to wake up very early."

"Before dawn."

"Perhaps it would be a good idea to come downstairs now…"

"I'll be along in a moment. I want to make some notes about Mr. Geoffrey and my encounter with him. I never had a chance to do that earlier. And maybe I'll come up with some theories as I'm writing."

"Alright," she conceded, but concern clouded her features.

"I promise I won't be long," he said reassuringly and squeezed her hands in return.

"I'm holding you to that promise. I'll be back in ten minutes to drag you to bed if you haven't come by then," she teased.


	6. Jonathan Drake

_**5. Jonathan Drake**_

It was chilly in the dark early morning hours, and Ichabod was happy to take up one of the shovels and help Thomas Geoffrey and his friend, a short wiry man whose features were also difficult to discern under all the grime and who merely identified himself as Lefty, dig up the Hartford man's grave. Ichabod had arrived at the Watch House before the appointed time, wishing to be there before Mr. Latham and Mr. Geoffrey; that way they would have no opportunity to speak in secret, and he would be able to observe their reaction to one another upon meeting. Besides, he hadn't been able to sleep very much. Anxiety gripped him throughout the night and he couldn't silence the millions of thoughts that crowded his mind, even as he lay in bed with Katrina's comforting arms around him.

If the two men did know one another they masked it well. Geoffrey and his friend Lefty arrived at the Watch House first and upon Latham's arrival Geoffrey merely nodded to him then climbed up to sit beside the driver for the journey to the cemetery. Latham's only reaction to both Mr. Geoffrey and his companion was a fleeting expression of disgust at their appearance. Their faces were very dirty, Ichabod had to admit, but the front of the grey cap that Geoffrey wore was pulled down so that it shaded his eyes and semi-concealed the top half of his face. Perhaps he wanted to avoid someone recognizing him after all.

Pulling his coat tightly around his body with one hand Geoffrey Latham stood at the edge of the grave to one side, holding a lantern and illuminating the area for the three of them as they labored at digging up the earth. The driver remained outside of the cemetery with the coach, perched on his seat, having made clear to Ichabod that as a good Christian he found the whole exercise ghoulish and wanted no part of it.

They finally reached the bottom of the grave, where the body lay wrapped in a burlap sack. Even a simple wooden box cost more money than the city wanted to spend, but at least they gave the man some dignity by covering him up. Mr. Latham set the lantern on the ground and helped Ichabod climb up out of the grave.

Geoffrey and Lefty lifted the body together and pushed it up and out. Ichabod and Latham took up the slack from above and laid the body on the grass beside the open grave. Then they assisted the two other men in climbing out of the deep pit.

Ichabod knelt down and untied the burlap sack. As he drew out a handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth against the stench, Latham followed suit.

"Constable, we're going to step out into the road to have a cigarette," Lefty announced. "Holler for us when you need us."

"Alright," Ichabod answered.

They walked off and Ichabod gestured for Latham to kneel beside him.

"He's been dead for several weeks now," he warned him. "The face will probably be bloated and swollen. It won't be pretty to look at naturally, and more importantly it may be quite difficult to identify him. Do the best that you can."

Still holding the handkerchief over his face with one hand he pulled the ends of the sack back with the other to reveal the face. Then he took up the lamp again and held it so Latham could see the body clearly. The colder weather had slowed the decaying process somewhat but the face had become distorted to a degree.

"Is it Jonathan Drake?" Ichabod asked, looking at Geoffrey Latham's face.

There was a look of horror in Latham's eyes and his whole body appeared rigid.

"Mr. Latham? Is it him?" he repeated when several minutes had gone by with no response from him.

Latham remained where he knelt, not moving a muscle. Then he closed his eyes and bent his head, grabbing his forehead with one hand as if trying to steady himself.

"No," he croaked hoarsely, his voice barely audible through the handkerchief he held over his nose and mouth. "It's not him."

"You're certain? Remember, the features are distorted…"

"Yes, I'm certain. This man's features…they are very similar to Jonathan Drake's, but it isn't him. I'm positive."

His body seemed to sag under a great weight suddenly.

"I'm sorry, Constable," he said somberly. "It would appear that this errand has been for naught."

Ichabod set down the lantern and pulled the ends of the sack over the face again. He put his handkerchief away and tied the sack closed, then stood up and put a hand on Latham's shoulder.

"Walk with me to the coach. You can wait there while the three of us work on putting the grave right."

Latham stood up and followed him out of the cemetery. Geoffrey and Lefty leaned against the carriage finishing their cigarettes.

"Ready for us?" Lefty asked.

"Yes. Please start and I shall be with you momentarily to assist."

They tossed their finished cigarettes onto the ground and headed back into the cemetery. Ichabod's lip curled up in disdain as he eyed the smoldering butts that lay there in the dirt. He walked over and ground out both cigarettes with the toe of his boot. Then he returned to the coach.

Latham sat inside now and Ichabod opened the door and leaned in to speak with him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, watching Latham closely.

"I'm fine."

"You must be relieved that it isn't Jonathan Drake."

"Yes, of course," Latham answered.

But he didn't look relieved at all. He looked ill and distraught, and almost terrified. Now that he wasn't covering his face with his handkerchief Ichabod could see that he was as pale as a ghost.

"This may seem to be an odd question, Mr. Latham, but did you know the man in the grave? Is it another acquaintance other than Jonathan Drake?"

He shook his head silently.

"You're certain of that?" Ichabod pressed, dubious.

"Yes."

Ichabod didn't believe him but decided not to remark on it further.

"I'm going to help the others. The sooner the task is finished the sooner we can leave this place. I did have just one more question that I wanted to ask you though, about a man I met yesterday after I left the Court House. He says he's from Hartford. Do you perchance know a man named Thomas Geoffrey?"

Ichabod studied him as he asked the question, looking for the slightest change in Latham's expression that might show any reaction, or give evidence that he wasn't answering honestly. But he saw no hint of recognition in the man's face at the mention of the name.

"No, I have no friends or acquaintances by that name. I don't have any recollection of casually meeting anyone with that name either."

"I see. Very well. I'll return shortly."

The other two men had already set the body back in the grave when Ichabod returned and they were now covering it up with dirt. Dawn came and went, and the sky was light by the time the three of them finished filling the grave in again. When they were ready to go Geoffrey climbed up on the box with the driver again while Lefty got into the coach with Ichabod.

_Maybe I'm reading more into this than is there_, Ichabod mused, _but it certainly seems as if Mr. Geoffrey is indeed going out of his way to avoid Mr. Latham_.

**oooOooo**

Mr. Latham was clearly ill after the ordeal in the cemetery and Ichabod asked the driver to stop in front of City Hotel first. He stepped out of the carriage and walked with Latham to the entrance.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Latham. Unfortunately my case is at a dead end for now, but at least we were able to confirm that your friend is safe."

"Yes," he answered weakly.

"I'm not certain that you'll be able to help me further with my case, but I may have additional questions and if anything new develops I'd like to contact you here at the hotel. Have you decided how long you will remain in the city?"

"I have not. I'd like to go to my room and lie down, Constable. I do intend to remain here at least until tomorrow afternoon."

"I see. Well, then, I thank you again for your time. I'll send word if I have any more questions for you."

They shook hands and Ichabod turned back toward the carriage. He climbed into the coach and they set off for the Watch House, where Ichabod paid the driver and the two men for their labor.

"Mr. Geoffrey," Ichabod stopped him before he could leave. "I may wish to contact you again…"

"If you have more work, Constable, I'm interested."

"Good. Unless you tell me otherwise I shall contact you at the Tontine."

"Thank you, Constable Crane. Have a good day."

Lefty wordlessly saluted Ichabod then the two men left the Watch House and went on their way.

"Well then, Constable Crane," the High Constable said when he saw him. "Did he identify the body?"

"No. But I believe he knew who it was, despite the fact that he claimed he didn't."

His superior rolled his eyes. "Naturally. After all, why would you allow anything that you're involved in to be straightforward?"

"Believe me I would have preferred this to be straightforward too."

"Why would the man say he didn't know who it was if he did? What reason would he have to lie?"

"I don't know. But he is lying…or at the very least he's not being completely truthful. It's…it's a feeling. There is more going on…"

"Put the thing to bed and go forward, Constable Crane. If the chaos of the past two days is any indication we'll probably have another riot today over the Eldridge case. Besides, we're backlogged with unsolved cases and more crimes occur every day. Stick to your beat, patrol the streets and concentrate on prevention."

"If you won't allow me to pursue this case during the day…"

High Constable Warwick brought his hands up to his temples. "Don't even say it, Crane."

"What I do on my own time…"

"When you were a child, Constable Crane, did you by any chance make a habit of lifting up every rug you saw to investigate what was underneath?" he interrupted snappishly.

"What?" he half whispered utterly bewildered.

"You're truly the most stubborn man I've ever met. Why you have this dogged determination to dig underneath the surface of every single situation is beyond me. You seem to be incapable of taking _anything_ at face value. A case can be clear and straightforward by all appearances, yet you always make more of it, insisting that there is something else to find, something that no one else can see. You seem to pursue dead ends for the mere sake of pursuing them."

"With all due respect, I believe adamantly that truth is not always appearance. In fact I would say that is the case quite often. And I see nothing irregular about my habit of wishing to discover facts and truth in a logical and intelligent manner."

"The man I saw at the Court House yesterday was well-dressed and he appeared to be a solid law-abiding citizen. What exactly do you suspect him of?"

"Honestly, I don't know. I can't imagine why Mr. Latham would deny knowing the victim when in fact he did know him. But there is more to this. I know it."

"Mr. Latham contacted you after you wrote to the constabulary in Hartford, correct?" High Constable Warwick asked after scrutinizing Ichabod in silence for a minute.

Ichabod sighed. He did not want to lie to his superior, which meant that he would have to reveal all of the background of this case to the High Constable if he wanted to ensure the slightest chance of pursuing it.

"Actually, I wrote to both the Watch House in Hartford and to the First Presbyterian Church of Hartford," he admitted. "Mr. Latham attends that church and it was there that he came in contact with my correspondence."

"The church? What possessed you to write to the church there?"

He took a deep breath before beginning his explanation of his father's obituary in the paper he found in the victim's pocket.

"I believe that the victim came to New York to find me, to bring me the news of my father's death. My father was the reverend at the First Presbyterian Church of Hartford. I wrote to them as well, because I thought perhaps someone knew the man and was aware of his reason for coming. Mr. Latham answered that letter."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Constable Crane," the High Constable said gruffly, almost in a mumble. For a moment he seemed almost human.

They were silent for some time. Ichabod stood stiffly, waiting for his superior to continue. High Constable Warwick had averted his eyes from him and was shuffling papers on his desk. Finally he looked up, appearing almost uncomfortable about looking at Ichabod.

"It's a truly odd coincidence, I must say, that you of all the constables on duty that day found this man and the obituary in his pocket." He hesitated momentarily then continued as if he'd suddenly made up his mind about something and looked Ichabod straight in the eye. "So, this is more than a routine crime; it has taken on a personal dimension for you. Very well. During your shift you will remain wherever you are needed. As you were pointing out, what you do on your own time is not anyone else's concern. I don't know what you think you will find, but your personal business is just that and I won't stop you from pursuing this case when you're off duty. But this is all off the record, you understand. If any of your off-duty actions end up reflecting badly on the constabulary I will deny any knowledge of this and all ties will be severed. You will be summarily dismissed from employment here."

**oooOooo**

Exhausted after rising so early that morning Ichabod immediately went up to the bedroom upon arriving home, moving so quietly that he was undetected by Katrina once again. He stretched out on the bed on his back after removing his uniform and dozed off the moment his head hit the pillow. The soft touch of her hand on his chest stirred him before she spoke, and he opened his eyes to find her sitting on the edge of the bed. She bent over and tenderly pressed her lips to his forehead.

"You snuck past me again," she chided gently.

"Mm…sorry," he murmured sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open. He wanted to say more but his thoughts were jumbled, drifting out of his mind as quickly as they came, and he forgot the words that he'd wished to say. His eyes fluttered closed again.

"Poor thing. It's cruel that anyone should have to rise as early as you did this morning."

Her hand still rested on his chest and she began to lovingly tousle his hair with the other.

"Are you hungry?"

"Sleep," he mumbled dreamily.

He dropped off again immediately upon uttering the word 'sleep' and was unaware of anything else she might have said. When he woke she was gone and it was dark outside. The room was dimly lit with candles and the clock by the bed showed the time as seven-thirty. He sat up and eased himself out of bed. Then he made his way downstairs.

Katrina was in the sitting room with Stephen. They were both reading and they looked up when he entered the room.

"Do you feel better?" Katrina asked when she saw him.

"Mm-hmm."

"I hope you're able to sleep tonight."

"That won't be a problem."

"Are you ready for supper? I kept the food warm."

"Do you need help?" Stephen asked.

"No, that's alright," she told him. "There's nothing to do but serve the food. Go on and study."

"Alright."

Ichabod followed her into the kitchen. She took a plate and served him from the pot over the stove. He poured himself a glass of cider and went to the table.

He began to eat the moment she set the plate down in front of him. She went back to the stove and minutes later returned to the table with another plate of food and took her seat beside him.

"You didn't eat yet?" he asked in surprise.

"I waited for you."

"Katrina, you didn't have to wait for me. You must be starving."

"I'm fine. I didn't mind at all. Stephen wanted to wait too but he gave up after a half an hour."

"Well, he's a growing boy."

They were both over hungry and so they ate in silence, the quiet punctuated only by the sounds of silverware scraping plates and Ichabod's remark that the food was tasty.

Stephen entered the room and Katrina looked up.

"Are you not in the mood to study?" she laughed knowingly. "You seem to be looking for an excuse to stop."

"I'm actually a little hungry still. Is there food left?"

"There's a lot of food left. Help yourself and join us."

Stephen joined them at the table with his plate and silverware.

"Were there more disturbances today over the Eldridge case?" he asked Ichabod.

"No, thank God we had a reprieve from the insanity. But we're expecting that there will be more before long."

They all went back to eating in silence. Ichabod finished his food and pushed his plate aside.

"How did this morning turn out, Ichabod?" Katrina asked.

"Not well," he sighed. "Mr. Latham told me that the man was not Jonathan Drake after all."

"Then the victim will remain unknown. That's so sad."

"Unknown for now anyway," he added.

"Why, do you think that there will be more leads?"

"I think that Mr. Latham knew the man."

"You mean, you think he was lying about him not being Jonathan Drake?"

"Not necessarily. It's plausible that Jonathan Drake was not the man's name, but I think Mr. Latham knew him, whatever his name was."

He gave her details about Latham's reaction to the body and the way he looked up until the time they left him at the hotel.

"But why would he lie?"

"I don't know yet. However, one thing I'm certain of is I have to find a way to delay Mr. Latham from returning to Hartford. If he leaves the state of New York, even the city, he will no longer be in our jurisdiction. It would be more difficult to bring him in for questioning if he doesn't wish to come voluntarily."

"What about the other man? Did they know each other?"

"I don't know. Mr. Latham didn't recognize the name Thomas Geoffrey, and neither of them showed any signs of recognizing the other when they met this morning."

"You don't seem convinced though."

"I'm not. Mr. Geoffrey seemed to be making a great effort to avoid getting too close to Mr. Latham."

He told her about Geoffrey hurrying to sit up front with the driver instead of in the coach with Latham.

"Are you sure you're not reading more into his actions than necessary? Maybe he was merely being considerate of his friend, allowing him to sit inside."

"It did enter my mind that perhaps I was overreacting. The explanation may be as simple as that. But he had his cap pulled down over his eyes also, as if he didn't want his face to be seen. Not that it was such a difficult feat; the appearance of both Mr. Geoffrey and his friend was such that Mr. Latham didn't want to get anywhere near them anyway. Indeed he looked thoroughly disgusted when he saw them. I can't completely blame him. Their faces were so covered in dirt and grime I'd imagine that their own mothers wouldn't be able to see their features and recognize them."

Ichabod leaned his elbows on the table and dropped his chin into his hands wearily.

"I'm glad you could give men in that situation some employment, even if it was only one job."

"They were both good workers too," he murmured thoughtfully. "They were quick and efficient, they did what they were told and both of them had a pleasant enough attitude considering the unpleasant task. They worked hard. I told Mr. Geoffrey that I might want to contact him again. If any evidence of a connection between him and Mr. Latham comes to light I'll want to question him. He thought I was interested in offering him more work and I decided to allow him to continue to believe that. It's true in part – I _will_ offer him any work that I can. He obviously needs it and he's eager for it. But I also keep thinking about his connection to the Tontine and his being acquainted with my father, just like Geoffrey Latham. I can't shake my suspicions about him any more than I can shake my suspicions about Mr. Latham."

"What will you do now?"

He told her about his discussion with the High Constable.

Katrina giggled. "His expression about you looking under rugs is an interesting…comparison. And not entirely inaccurate."

Ichabod raised his head and frowned at her.

She reached over and caressed his cheek. "I know that the High Constable's manner was one of annoyance, and possibly mean-spiritedness, but he was actually complimenting you in a way. You're determined to dig beneath every surface because you refuse to accept anything less than the truth. It's a wonderful quality and one of the things I love most about you."

He reached up and clasped her hand. "You see me in a way that no one else in the world does. You and Stephen."

"That's because Stephen and I are both smarter than everyone," she replied with a laugh.

"Well, in any case I will have to work on my own time if I wish to pursue this case any further. And I do intend to pursue it."

Stephen, who had been eating and listening to them in silence, suddenly spoke up.

"So, who is Jonathan Drake then?"

Ichabod stared at him. "No one. I don't know."

"But Mr. Latham thought the body would be Jonathan Drake, right? So there must be someone named Jonathan Drake who came here to New York from Hartford."

"That's a very good point, Stephen. I shall have to look for him." He gave him a small smile as he watched the boy's face fill with pride. "Maybe he can fill in some of the missing information. He must be registered at one of the city inns if he's still here in New York. Thank you."

"I'd make a good detective's assistant," he offered eagerly.

"Yes, you would. But for now it's better that you concentrate on your studies."

He looked disappointed. Ichabod reached over and patted his arm.

"For now. But I'll still welcome any ideas that you may have, Stephen."

**oooOooo**

For the next few days Ichabod, along with the rest of the constabulary, was occupied with keeping peace in the streets. He arrived home late each evening, and although he continued to make notes concerning Latham, Geoffrey, the unidentified man and now the unknown entity named Jonathan Drake he made no progress. Nor had he had time to visit the hotels and inns to see if Jonathan Drake was registered anywhere.

"You're too tired and disturbed from the day's events," Katrina advised him quietly. "Rest. Leave this for a few days. When you come back to it you'll have a fresh point of view."

She was right, of course, and although he was reluctant at first in the end he took her advice.

On the thirty-first of March, the James Eldridge trial began at nine o'clock sharp in the morning.


	7. Sketches

_**6. Sketches**_

Ichabod was surprised to see the light shining in the upper-storey window of their house on William Street as he approached it on his walk north from Wall Street. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. He knew from the direction and the floor level that it was the window to Katrina's and his bedroom. It appeared she'd waited up for him.

Nevertheless he moved as quietly as possible upon entering the house; it was silent and still as he removed his overcoat and boots. He climbed the staircase on tiptoe and upon reaching the landing at the top of the stair he found that the door to their bedroom was ajar. The light from the fire spilled out into the hallway.

All he could see of Katrina when he entered the room was a lump buried under the covers and long blonde hair splayed across her pillow, and he assumed that she'd fallen asleep waiting for him. He removed his uniform jacket and hung it up, his movements silent so as not to wake her.

For a few minutes he sat, undressed and prepared for sleep, on the edge of the bed. His mind was crowded with thoughts of the long and aggravating day and he didn't feel sleepy at all. He picked up his ledger, which he had brought over to the bed with him and set on the end table, and opened it, but he was too agitated to work, his thoughts too frenetic.

Although his tasks were preferable to those of the other constables it had still been a long, harrowing day. They had to report to the Watch House at half past seven that morning; here it was nearly two o'clock in the morning, nearly twenty-four hours since he'd woken up, and he'd just arrived home. He was stationed inside the court room all day so rather than controlling the crowd outside he was one of the men charged with clearing the superfluous spectators out of the court room before the trial began and then keeping an eye on the remaining observers. In some ways he was lucky, he supposed, for he didn't have to drive back the chanting mob that remained outside of the Court House all day, and whose cries for blood could be heard clearly by everyone including the unfortunate defendant James Eldridge.

Thomas Geoffrey of all people was one of the spectators in the room that day. He sat in the back row, huddled in the corner of the bench, dressed in the same dirty, ragged clothing that Ichabod had seen him wearing each time he met him. His grey cap was pulled down over his brow and he spent the entire day with his pen moving back and forth, up and down across the pages of a ledger. Ichabod never had the chance to approach him and talk to him, but Geoffrey noticed him and they politely acknowledged each other from across the room.

Throughout the day Ichabod's eye was drawn back to him. He couldn't help wondering at the anomaly that was Thomas Geoffrey, a man who appeared to be homeless and ragged yet spent his time loitering about the Court House or, apparently, the Tontine Coffee House, and taking odd jobs when he could get them. And now he seemed to be keeping a ledger of the trial. Why? Who _was_ he?

Ichabod was drawn out of his thoughts by the sudden sense that he wasn't alone in the room; that is, alone in being awake. He closed his ledger and set it back down on his night table, took a deep breath and exhaled, then turned to gaze at his wife. She lay motionless but Ichabod realized that he wasn't hearing the deep and even breathing that accompanied one's sleep.

"Katrina?" he murmured softly, his suspicion confirmed that she was awake after all.

He sensed her hesitation, but after a minute she slowly rolled onto a side and pushed the covers back, peering up at him.

"You _are_ awake."

"Yes."

He stretched out across the bed toward her and leaned over, kissing her forehead tenderly. "Have you been awake this entire time?"

She nodded.

"What's wrong? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I waited up for you."

"I can see that. You didn't want me to know?"

Katrina shook her head.

"Why?" he exclaimed with great feeling.

"I don't know."

Her cheeks had flushed and she almost looked sheepish. Ichabod gazed at her, his eyes probing her face with concern.

"Katrina, what is it?"

"I just couldn't sleep knowing you were still out in the night trying to fight an angry mob."

Ichabod sensed that she was holding something back but he said nothing. As he eased himself under the covers beside her she drew close to him. They settled into each other's arms and lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling, neither of them ready to sleep.

"Fortunately the mob was too exhausted to be angry this late at night."

"Will the schedule be the same tomorrow?"

Her voice was timid, as if she dreaded his response, and he could feel the tension in her body. He clasped her tightly and kissed her cheek softly.

"No, thank God." At this response she released a held breath and relaxed in his arms. "I'm still to report early, at half past seven as we did this morning. But the Burgomaster said that Court will adjourn no later than six o'clock from now on, no matter how far along they are in an examination. Tonight we didn't adjourn until after midnight."

"Thank God he has changed the schedule. I don't know how I..."

Ichabod stared at her curiously when she stopped abruptly. Her voice had been filled with emotion but she seemed to catch herself, as if she didn't want him to hear it.

"Why did he allow it to go on until so late today?" she continued, now speaking serenely once more.

"I don't know. It was insane and the Burgomaster realized that by the end of the night. Maybe he was hoping to go through as many witnesses as possible and shorten the number of days spent on the case. I don't blame him for wanting this over quickly. But the estimated number of witnesses to be heard is roughly forty. If every one of them is called I can't see this case lasting for any less than eight days, and that is assuming that each witness will only have a short amount of testimony. It's just not possible. My guess is that it will continue for ten days or more. It's going to be hell."

"Was it horrible today?"

"As bad as we expected it would be, no better, no worse," he replied with a heavy sigh. "I don't even want to think about it right now."

Katrina moved a hand up to his chest and began to rub it soothingly.

"How was your day?"

"Alright," she answered. "We could hear the noise of the crowd from here."

"I'm not surprised. Did you and Stephen do anything interesting?"

"Not really."

"What did you do?"

"We worked on his studies. It wasn't too cold today so we walked a little bit after he was finished with his work." He heard her gulp softly. "But we walked in the other direction, away from the Court House."

"I see."

He rolled onto his side and lifted himself up on an elbow. Leaning over her he stared lovingly into her face. She gazed up at him, her large brown eyes wide. Ichabod cupped her face with his hand and tenderly stroked her soft skin, his thumb making small circles against her cheek.

"I'm sure you were both curious," he said after a time.

"Yes. But we didn't want to walk into the middle of a mob scene again."

Katrina didn't offer any further information on where they went and Ichabod decided not to ask right now.

"Any further word on Geoffrey Latham?" she asked.

"No. I spoke with him the day after the exhumation and he told me he'd decided to stay in town for a little while longer. He clearly conducts at least some business here, so I suppose he's taking advantage of the opportunity after having made the long journey. I haven't had time to pursue the case any further than that."

"What about the other man?"

"Mr. Geoffrey was one of the spectators today. He sat in the back row the entire day, with a pen and ledger. I think he was writing about the trial. He's an odd man. I've yet to figure him out."

They were silent again, and he continued to gaze down at her for a long time, a frown darkening his face as he wondered what she was holding back from him this night and why she felt the need to do so. It was clear to him that she didn't want to speak about herself. As soon as the opportunity arose she had steered the conversation back to what happened during _his_ day. And she seemed so odd-tempered and nervous tonight. Was it merely from worrying about him and waiting so many hours for him to come home? Clearly it had shaken her up, his returning so late at night. He realized that she must have been frantic about him. But why didn't she want him to know that?

Katrina must have guessed what he was thinking. "Ichabod," she began, reaching up toward him. Her fingers brushed against his lips and he kissed them softly. "You have enough to worry about. I don't want you to worry about me, and there's no need for you to..."

"I'll always worry about you."

"I knew in advance that you would be late."

"Still, my message didn't say just how late it would be. You must have been beside yourself…"

"It couldn't be helped. You didn't know."

He clasped her hand in his and kissed it once more.

"There's something else, Ichabod. Promise you won't be angry. Stephen…did something to try to help you today…I didn't know he was going to…please don't be angry with him…or me…"

"Why on earth should I be angry with him if he tried to help me? Or you?"

She removed her hand from his grasp and sat up. He lifted himself up to sit beside her.

"There is a list that he made…it's downstairs in the sitting room…I'll show you tomorrow morning. Knowing that you didn't have time to do it yourself Stephen decided to start visiting the hotels and inquiring after Jonathan Drake."

Ichabod's eyes widened and he stared at her in stunned silence.

"He memorized every hotel and inn that he visited today then wrote them down when he came home," she continued.

"I don't believe it." He shook his head. "I'm going to…did you know that he intended to do this?"

"No. I sent him out on an errand...and while he was out he stopped along his way into any hotel or inn he passed by and asked if Mr. Drake was registered. I was a little worried when he took so long. I thought maybe he'd been caught up in the mob. Don't be angry with him, Ichabod. He knows how busy you are and thought to save you time and effort."

"The boy is ambitious, for sure," he sighed.

"And he very much wants to follow in your footsteps."

"I can't understand why."

"Can't you?" she asked, smiling.

"No, I really can't."

He lapsed into thoughtful silence.

"I don't suppose he found Jonathan Drake lodging in any of the places he explored."

"No, he didn't. But he did manage to lower the number of places that you'll have to visit."

Ichabod shook his head again and brought his hands up to rub his face.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow evening. Someday he may make a fine detective, but not now. He could have gotten himself into serious trouble."

**oooOooo**

After sleeping for less than three hours Ichabod rose at five o'clock in the morning, groggy and bleary-eyed. Katrina dragged herself out of bed too and, after donning a robe and slippers, stood before him and lovingly tended to him despite her own exhaustion, helping him on with his uniform jacket. Of course he didn't require her assistance; but she truly enjoyed fussing over him and in the months since they married he'd come to appreciate and long for her sweet ministrations and nurturing.

"It's so early, Katrina, and you've barely slept," he protested half-heartedly.

"Yes, but I'll be able to return to bed after you've gone," she laughed. "So you needn't feel too guilty."

"Mm, you're the lucky one. I only hope I'll last through the afternoon."

"At least court won't be adjourning at such a ridiculous hour this evening. Tonight you'll be able to have a full night's rest."

She finished buttoning his jacket then ran her palms across his chest.

"I know you hate this uniform but you do look handsome and distinguished in it," she murmured and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"It's the big shiny buttons I hate the most. They're ridiculous."

He followed her downstairs. Light poured out from the kitchen and dining room and they discovered that Stephen was in the kitchen, awake and already preparing breakfast. The sun hadn't risen yet so candles were lit as well.

"Good morning," he greeted them cheerfully.

As Ichabod took a seat at the table Stephen approached and set down a cup filled with hot coffee before him.

"Thank you, Stephen."

He hurried to serve the rest of the breakfast. Ichabod watched with amusement as Katrina, standing next to Stephen by the cooking fire, signaled to the boy with subtle gestures, mouthing words to him and no doubt clueing him in to the fact that she'd already revealed his activities of the previous day to Ichabod. They both turned their heads to look at him at the same time, probably feeling his eyes upon them, and Ichabod quickly averted his eyes, raising his cup to his lips to hide the smirk on his face at their conspiratorial manner. He felt tenderness toward both of them as well as a certain amount of pleasure and pride at their respect for his position as the authority of the household.

Later he would caution Stephen about taking it upon himself to engage in detecting without his guidance; but he wouldn't be too hard on him.

Ichabod turned his attention away from them and tucked into the breakfast that now sat before him. Stephen took his seat at the table with his own plate of food. Katrina was at the stove pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Sir?" the boy began hesitantly after glancing surreptitiously at Katrina. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone out to all of those hotels without…"

"You could have gotten into serious trouble," Ichabod interrupted him sternly. "We'll speak about it this evening."

"Yes, sir," he answered softly.

"However, you did manage to save me time and effort that I would have had to invest, so I thank you for that."

"Yes, sir. He wasn't registered in any of the places I went to, but he did try to take a room above the Tontine Coffee House."

"You went to the Tontine?"

Stephen nodded. "They know Jonathan Drake, but they told me that when he arrived there they had to turn him away because their rooms were full."

"I assume they didn't know which hotel he went to then."

He shook his head. They turned back to their breakfast and Katrina joined them at the table with her coffee.

"Ichabod," she began thoughtfully after a minute. "Would you tell me more about the Tontine Coffee House? You said that many of the transactions conducted there are not exactly legal, but surely not everyone there is dishonest. Even if your father was somehow involved in some sort of financial activities it may not be what you think. Perhaps you are allowing your own opinions, even prejudices…"

"The Tontine Coffee House is a powerful venture, run by wealthy, well-connected men. In the past several years the political climate of this city has shifted to a point where it is now focused on advancing the…economic...interests of a relatively small group of men. The Tontine is the center of it. Perhaps I'm being unfair in saying that every transaction enacted there is questionable and unethical. And perhaps I'm simply being mistrustful of something I don't understand – I'm a detective and a scientist, not a financial genius. But both the Tontine Coffee House and the Bank of New York are ventures which, it seems to me, were conceived not to facilitate commerce, as has been claimed, but to be run for the profit of an elite group of stockholders."

"You are mistrustful of the wealthy then?" she teased, but Ichabod caught the slight edge in her voice and he reached out to take her hand.

"That isn't what I meant, Katrina," he said quickly. "Please…"

"It's alright, Ichabod. I'm not offended or angry. I only want to understand." She hesitated for a minute. "When we met in Sleepy Hollow my father had already made his fortune. But we weren't always wealthy. He worked very hard to…"

"I know he did." He took a deep breath. "Forgive me. Perhaps in my own way I am prejudiced, even hypocritical. I have no right to…after all, I've been very fortunate myself considering my humble beginnings and my profession. I live well in this very expensive city, better than many."

She smiled lightly and squeezed his hand.

"Please let me…I'll try to explain myself better, Katrina."

He paused and attempted to gather his thoughts.

"It's the injustice and exploitation that I hate. The speculative nature of the stock market and the way it functions too closely resembles gambling in my opinion; only in this case the gambler who loses isn't the only one affected…it affects everyone. Several years ago New York City was nearly brought to economic ruin by it. Perhaps you read about a man named William Duer."

She shook her head.

"William Duer was appointed as secretary to the Board of the Treasury by Alexander Hamilton. A few years ago, around seventeen ninety-one or ninety-two, Duer resigned this position and entered into a partnership with Alexander Macomb, one of New York's richest citizens. The agreement combined Macomb's money and Duer's speculative talents and insider connections with the Treasury Department. They planned to operate together for one year, speculating in stocks and bonds, and then divide the profits equally. There were rumors that the Bank of New York would be bought by the Bank of United States. Duer began buying Bank of New York stock, for if these rumors turned out to be true, Duer and Macomb would make a handsome profit when the stock went up. But Duer was duplicitous. While long in the market with Macomb, he was short Bank of New York in his own account. In other words he was betting in public that the Bank of New York would be taken over and at the same time betting in private that it would not be. If the merger failed, Duer and Macomb would lose, but Duer, on his own, would make a fortune. And remember, they were using Macomb's money on the joint venture. Not a cent of Duer's money was at risk."

"Only his good reputation when his partner discovered what he was doing, which apparently didn't matter to him."

"Exactly."

"You said he resigned from his position in the Treasury…"

"Yes. Federal law forbids Treasury officials to speculate in federal securities. In my opinion there is a difference between your father, who made his money selling a tangible product, and speculators who seem to create a financial…bubble…out of promises and air. But I readily admit that I may not understand the workings of commerce and the market and my sentiments may stem from ignorance."

"I understand your viewpoint, Ichabod, but Duer is only one person. Are you certain that you're not unfairly judging an entire group of men by one dishonest and unscrupulous man's ill behavior?"

"You must think I'm an ass…"

"Not at all," she replied, squeezing his hand again. "I love your idealism and your passionate desire to make the world a better place. But I think that sometimes your idealism and passion…clouds your judgment."

He nodded. "Yes."

The sound of Stephen's chair scraping the floor as he pushed it back drew their attention back to him.

"We're sorry, Stephen. This discussion is far too serious and intense for such an early hour…"

"I don't mind," he replied with a mischievous smile. "Besides, most of the discussions in this house are serious and intense."

**oooOooo**

Thomas Geoffrey was outside the Court House waiting for the doors to open when the team of constables reported, wishing to secure a place for himself before the mob arrived. He greeted Ichabod cordially.

Ichabod stationed himself at his post inside the court room. Thomas Geoffrey took a seat in the exact same place on the bench in the back and readied his pen and ledger again. More people began filing in at half past eight and by quarter to nine the room was overflowing. For the next quarter of an hour Ichabod and the others worked to peacefully and quietly escort the superfluous spectators out. When order had been restored the proceedings began and the trial continued for the day without any major incident besides the gathering of another shouting crowd outside of the Court House.

During one of the breaks Ichabod decided to speak with Mr. Geoffrey, and he walked to the back of the room and the spot where he was sitting. Upon approaching him he discovered with amazement that Mr. Geoffrey wasn't writing in his ledger. On the page to which the book was opened he was putting the finishing touches on a sketch of the Burgomaster sitting at his bench. He was a very good artist.

"Mr. Geoffrey, that's wonderful," he said softly, peering over his shoulder.

"Constable Crane." He immediately bent forward as if he wanted to instinctively shield the ledger. "I didn't realize you were behind me…"

"Forgive me if I startled you. I saw you with your ledger yesterday too…I thought you were writing about the trial. You're a wonderful artist. Please, may I look?"

Geoffrey hesitated and Ichabod attributed his reluctance to modesty.

"You've no reason to be timid. I'm sure your works in progress are infinitely better than any finished thing I've ever sketched."

After another moment's hesitation Geoffrey handed the ledger to him. "It's only the few pages before this one that are from the trial."

Ichabod took the book from him and, turning the pages with care, he examined the pictures that Geoffrey had drawn. In addition to the Burgomaster he had sketched page after page of the witnesses, the attorneys, the defendant, even a sketch of _him_ standing guard in the room.

"I hope I did justice to your likeness, Constable."

"This is an astonishing collection that you've made, Mr. Geoffrey."

"I've decided to create a pictorial record of the entire trial," he told Ichabod softly. "Perhaps the newspapers that are covering it would be willing to purchase one or more of my sketches. They could print the picture with the article."

"That's a very innovative idea."

He continued to flip through the pages, working his way back to the first images of the trial. There was a picture of Assistant District Attorney Colden delivering his opening argument to the jury. And there was a picture drawn across two facing pages of the constables shuffling out the superfluous spectators on the first day. Ichabod smiled at it.

"This is wonderful. I should like to speak with you more about your drawings, Mr. Geoffrey. Perhaps your artistic skills could be of help to the constabulary some time and it would be another manner in which you could earn money. I wonder…if a witness described someone you had never seen before would you be able to draw the person they described?"

"My success would depend largely on the accuracy and detail that the witness could provide. But I'm confident that I could approximate the likeness fairly well if given the chance. It's an intriguing idea, Constable Crane. And I do like to draw. I'd be happy to speak with you about it."

"I'll likely have to assist the others with the crowd after court adjourns, which may take some time."

"Well, I plan to go to the Tontine directly from court. Shall I wait for you there?"

Ichabod frowned momentarily at his mention of the Tontine, but remembering his discussion with Katrina early that morning he decided to set aside his reservations – and prejudices – about the place and its patrons, and he conceded to this suggestion. He still had a difficult time reconciling how Mr. Geoffrey with his ragged appearance socialized and fit in with well-dressed merchants, lawyers and investors. At the very least it would be interesting to observe him in the particular setting.

He absently flipped back one more page of the ledger and his face dropped when he saw the drawing on that page. Geoffrey had sketched a picture of the man that had been found in the alley, the man who had come to bring him news of his father's death and the one that Mr. Latham had been unable to identify.

The door to the Burgomaster's chambers opened then, signaling that court was about to reconvene and everyone had to come to order. Ichabod closed the book and wordlessly handed it back to Mr. Geoffrey as everyone in the room stood up.

"Thank you, Constable. I'll see you this evening at the Tontine."

Ichabod nodded and walked back to take his place along the side wall. For the next two hours or so he only half-mindedly monitored the room. His thoughts were on Thomas Geoffrey's sketch of the dead man from Hartford and its ramifications.


	8. Bad Day in Court

**_7. Bad Day in Court_**

Ichabod was on his way to meet Thomas Geoffrey by half past five. The defense counsel finished their re-cross examination of the last witness of the day at ten minutes before five. Rather than swearing in another witness, only to have the examination interrupted after less than a quarter of an hour, the Burgomaster – who had now determined that they should end by five o'clock every day rather than six – decided that it would be prudent to adjourn ten minutes early and put the next witness on the stand in the morning. The crowd was dispersed by half-past five, and after stopping briefly at the Watch House and sending a message home to Katrina advising her that he had to meet with Thomas Geoffrey and would not be home before seven o'clock, Ichabod made his way down Wall Street.

The Tontine Coffee House was a large three-storey brick building on the corner of Wall and Water Street with a porch and a veranda on the second floor that overlooked the street. He climbed the eight steps up to the front portico where a crowd of well-dressed business men loitered, some of them leaning on the brass railing that enclosed the porch and peering out toward the water, others standing in tight clusters debating and bargaining animatedly. Ichabod pushed his way through them and approached the front door, which was about halfway along the length of the porch. He stepped inside the vast, spacious main room where all stock market activities and business were conducted.

Along the sides of the main room were tables and booths, where patrons could sip coffee or another drink of their choice and write, conduct business, socialize with friends. He caught sight of Thomas Geoffrey's grey cap easily – no one in this establishment wore a hat remotely resembling what he had on his head – and crossed the room in that direction. When he reached the table he saw that Geoffrey was putting the finishing touches on one of the sketches he'd drawn that day.

"Good evening, Mr. Geoffrey," he said upon approaching the table.

"Hello, Constable Crane," he replied, indicating for him to sit across from him. "Have a seat."

"Thank you."

His eye swept the room, taking in the well-dressed, elegant men seated at the other tables. Thomas Geoffrey certainly was an anomaly here, as he was everywhere else that Ichabod had seen him with the exception of digging at the cemetery.

"As I said earlier, Constable Crane, I find your idea intriguing. Would your superiors indeed be interested in utilizing my artistic skills? From what I've observed in the court room they appear to be quite resistant to any new ideas."

"Then you've noticed," he remarked with a sigh. "Just how often do you loiter about the court room, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Not as often as I probably appear to from your standpoint; it is only that you have run into me every time I happened to be there."

"I see." Ichabod paused for a short spell to gather his thoughts then took a deep breath and spoke again. "Well, my original intention _was_ to speak with you about utilizing your services for the constabulary. But something else came to my attention today and I must ask you about it. I happened to turn back one page in your ledger earlier today, to a picture you drew prior to the trial…"

Even through the dirt and grime that obscured Geoffrey's face Ichabod was able to catch a fleeting expression that flickered across it, an emotion that he couldn't quite place. His companion regained his composure quickly, however, and waited in silence for him to finish.

"I recognized the picture as soon as I saw it. It was an accurate sketch of a man that I found dead in an alley several weeks ago."

"You wish to use the picture?" Geoffrey asked, clearly feigning ignorance.

"I wish to know if you were acquainted with the gentleman. It appears that he was robbed in that alley and killed for his belongings. Your sketch of his face is accurate down to the last detail."

Geoffrey pushed his ledger across the table toward him. "Perhaps it will help me if you would point out the picture that you are speaking of. I sketch many faces, and while I'm well acquainted with some of the people I draw that isn't always the case. Sometimes faces or scenes strike me and I feel compelled to sketch them, even if I don't know the people."

Ichabod bit back an annoyed sigh and flipped back through the ledger until he found the page. Then he turned the book around for Geoffrey to look at.

"Ah, yes," he said coolly after affecting to look carefully at the sketch. "I met him in a tavern. A very interesting gentleman and he had quite a lot of character in his face. I'm afraid I only saw him that one time. We happened to strike up a conversation. His name was John or Joe. I remember the name began with a 'J'. I'm afraid his face made more of an impression on me than his name."

"And I don't suppose you exchanged surnames," Ichabod said, suppressing a sigh.

"No."

"The man was from Hartford. As Mr. Latham is."

"Mr. Latham..."

"The man who was with us the other day," he clarified, managing to mask his impatience. "He was there to identify the body that we exhumed the other day."

"What makes you believe the dead man was from Hartford?"

"There was an edition of a Hartford newspaper in his pocket."

Another expression of _something_ flickered across Geoffrey's face then disappeared, an emotion or impulse that Ichabod couldn't name or pin down.

"An odd coincidence, Constable Crane," was all he said cagily when he spoke again. "During that entire evening neither the topic of where we hailed from nor the city of Hartford came up in conversation. Of course, Hartford is not as big a city as New York but it is quite large."

"Yes."

At that moment Ichabod might have offered the information that the dead man had attended Reverend Crane's church and knew him. If Thomas Geoffrey was telling the truth when he told Ichabod that he was also a member of that church it would mean that he had to know the victim well, for he would have seen him there. Of course, that would mean he'd also recognized the man when they met in the tavern, and it was therefore not a first meeting as he implied. But Ichabod decided not to reveal anything further right now. Perhaps Mr. Geoffrey would trip himself up if he was given enough leeway. Besides, calling him a liar wouldn't prove anything, for he'd given a reasonable enough explanation for the sketch. If he was somehow involved in the man's death Ichabod did not have tangible proof yet.

"May I ask what you discussed with the man?"

He shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary. We talked about the city…the difficulty of living here, the last yellow fever epidemic, the fact that despite many of the difficulties there are still excellent taverns to have a drink in, that sort of thing. Casual conversation."

"I see."

They were silent for a time and Ichabod debated whether to raise the subject of his father.

"Well, I don't know that I can be of any further help concerning this case," Geoffrey said, stirring up the conversation again. "However if you are still interested in utilizing my skills for other cases I'd be happy to offer them."

"Before I could engage you for such a task I would have to speak with my superiors. They may not be agreeable to paying for your services. As you've already remarked they are hesitant to embrace new methods, however logical and helpful those methods may be."

"Perhaps I could offer my services on a volunteer basis the first time, as a trial. Then, if everyone decides it's useful and they would like me to continue to do other work we can discuss the price of my services."

"That's a sound idea, Mr. Geoffrey. I appreciate your willingness to volunteer."

"Well, then. I suppose the next step would be to contact me here when you need my services."

"Or in the court room."

"Yes, I do intend to observe the entire Eldridge case. You can certainly contact me there."

"Mr. Geoffrey," Ichabod began and hesitated before continuing. "Would you mind if I asked you a few personal questions?"

"You may ask. If something is too personal I may refrain from answering."

"When did you come to New York City?"

"I first came to the city nearly five years ago, at the age of twenty-six. I'd just finished law school and was hoping to make contacts here. I was young and ambitious, interested in starting a practice…and making my fortune of course."

"Judging from appearances your life didn't proceed as you planned," Ichabod said softy.

"I believe that those men for whom life does proceed as planned are rare indeed," he said, waxing philosophical. "Life is unpredictable and filled with surprises, some pleasant, some less so. One must develop the ability to adapt."

"You attended my father's church," Ichabod asked, changing the subject abruptly.

"Every Sunday morning."

"Then you knew the other members of his congregation such as…"

"I knew some better than others, of course, but yes." He paused. "Constable, I'm aware that you and your father haven't seen each other for many years."

Ichabod froze and gooseflesh began to cover every inch of him, beginning at the bottom of his spine and working up to his arms, neck and scalp.

"When I heard the man call you Constable Crane outside of the Court House on the day we met I didn't need to ask if you were Reverend Ely Crane's son – that was merely a pretense, a way to strike up conversation. I already knew that the reverend had a son who was a constable in New York City. I knew it was you. Your father kept track of you over the years."

Thomas Geoffrey had completely turned the tables on him. Ichabod's thoughts had come to a screeching halt and his mind was blank.

"After you left home he went in search of you and found you."

Ichabod fixed his gaze on his hands, which were placed palms down on the table, and pursed his lips, fighting to regain his composure. His father had kept _track_ of him? In the first minutes after hearing this Ichabod believed it and the revelation of such a thing chilled him to the bone. But after reigning in his turbulent feelings he realized immediately that this was an unbelievable lie – and something completely uncharacteristic of his father. The man had murdered Elizabeth Crane by torturing her to death in an iron maiden. In his ignorance and arrogant self-righteousness he believed that perhaps this action had expunged the sinfulness that festered inside of her, or that he believed was inside of her. His mother was given a Christian burial and at the funeral Ely Crane prayed for her salvation. And then he forgot her, never mentioning her, removing all of her belongings from the house and any evidence that she ever existed; and cuffing Ichabod sharply on the ear the one time he made the error of asking for her. Ichabod couldn't imagine Reverend Crane searching for him after he'd gone, for he was the last connection, the last reminder to the reverend of his wife's existence. No, it seemed to Ichabod that he would have been relieved to find the witch's son gone.

If Thomas Geoffrey was aware of the turmoil into which Ichabod's emotions had been plunged he didn't show it. He smoothly changed the subject again.

"It's unfortunate that we didn't meet earlier, Constable Crane. If you had only seen my sketch before then you might have avoided exhuming the poor man. Your witness could have identified him from the picture alone. Didn't he provide you with the man's name?"

Still shaken up but slowly feeling his equilibrium become restored Ichabod managed to gather his thoughts. "No. The man was apparently not who Mr. Latham thought he would be. However, it seems that there are several men from Hartford, all in the city at this time, apparently all acquainted with one another, who have crossed my path since I discovered the man. Perhaps you know one or more of them. At least one of them frequents the Tontine. His name is Jonathan Drake."

"Yes, I know him."

"He's here in New York. Have you spoken to him?"

Geoffrey shook his head. "What has he to do with anything?"

"I don't know, but he tried to take a room here and was turned away. Mr. Latham was under the impression that the deceased man he went to identify would turn out to be Jonathan Drake. The man was not Jonathan Drake. I believe that Mr. Latham, Mr. Drake and the deceased all knew each other. Possibly they were involved in something together."

His companion remained quiet for a long time while Ichabod scrutinized him intently, searching for the slightest change of expression, anything that might give him away.

"If you have anything to tell me, anything you can add, Mr. Geoffrey, it would be extremely helpful."

But he merely shook his head. "Hopefully I can be more helpful to you as an artist, Constable Crane."

**oooOooo**

"There is no question in my mind. He had to know that the idea of him…keeping _track_ of me…would completely spook me, and that it would throw me off my guard."

Ichabod paced back and forth along the length of the sitting room floor in agitation, muttering several epithets to describe Mr. Geoffrey and this particular underhanded tactic. Katrina had given up on coaxing him to sit with her. She perched on the edge of the sofa before the fireplace and watched him intently, doing her best to remain serene herself and to comfort him.

"It is possible that it was calculated, his turning the conversation to your father…"

"Possible? It's probable. I would say definite."

"I wonder why your father never contacted you if…"

"First of all, I cannot believe that he kept track of me."

"You think Mr. Geoffrey lied about that?"

"Yes I do. He knew it would catch me off guard and distract me, at least temporarily putting me off of his trail, and there was no way to prove it either way. But I cannot believe that my father kept track of me."

"Ichabod, you don't think he was concerned about you when you ran away…?"

"No. I imagine my disappearance was a relief to him, in fact. I don't think he regarded me as _his_ son. I was my mother's son. And it suits me completely to think of myself as my mother's son only."

A sad expression spread across Katrina's face when he said this.

Ichabod paced for another minute then suddenly turned on his heel and went to the writing desk where he'd laid down his ledger.

"I'm curious, Ichabod," Katrina began, rising from the sofa and approaching the desk. "Do you suspect Mr. Geoffrey of killing that man?"

"The man's money and shoes were stolen. Judging from Mr. Geoffrey's circumstances he certainly had a motive to rob him. Killing him may have been a necessary consequence, or possibly even an accident."

"Why would he draw a picture of a man he robbed and killed though?"

"I don't know. Frankly I suspect that Mr. Geoffrey is not completely right in the head. The fact is, though, everyone that I've spoken to in connection with this case has been untruthful, or at the very least withholding information. But I have no proof. I can call them liars and they'll defend themselves, and there is no conclusive proof of anything. The fact that Geoffrey happened to draw a picture of the man can be explained as simply as he said: he met him and decided to sketch him because he found his face to be interesting."

His thoughts had been too erratic and disturbed earlier, and he hadn't been able to sit still long enough to write notes about his discussion with Thomas Geoffrey or any new suspicions and theories that he'd formed. Now he sat at the desk and attempted to put his thoughts in some semblance of order. He began to write in his ledger.

"He knows Jonathan Drake?" she asked, reading over his shoulder.

"Yes, but he didn't know that he was in New York. Or, he behaved as if he didn't know. And when I mentioned Mr. Latham's name he didn't show any sign of recognition. He merely repeated the name back to me. Still, there was something in his expression when I spoke to him of the victim…"

Ichabod trailed off and shook his head. He gazed off into space distantly, replaying his conversation with Thomas Geoffrey in his mind and trying to recall the nuances of his expressions; no easy task through the dirt and grime that covered his face.

"And another thing…Mr. Geoffrey must have been a very important person in this city at some point," he continued. "The fact that the proprietors at the Tontine allow him to appear like that and sit in the main room…it's completely outlandish. He's…filthy…to put it politely. Obviously he has deep ties to the place and to the businessmen who conduct their affairs there. Still," he mused. "You would think they'd help him clean himself up and give him a decent set of clothes to wear."

"Are you really going to use him as an artist for the constabulary?"

"Yes, if I don't end up arresting him. He's an excellent artist and if he was sincere about his willingness to assist I would certainly attempt to convince the constabulary that he could be useful. Whether they will be willing to embrace a new method is questionable and unfortunately highly unlikely. Mr. Geoffrey realizes that, too."

He set his pen aside and leaned back in the chair. Katrina pressed against his shoulder and reached over, picking the ledger up and reading it.

"Would it be worthwhile to question the proprietors of the Tontine about Mr. Geoffrey?" she asked, handing it back to him.

"Yes, it might be. However, if I'm correct in my assumption that he has friends there I will have to be careful in my approach. I don't want to make them suspicious."

"Maybe you can tell them that you're thinking about employing him and want to check his references."

"Mm, that's not a bad idea. It may also be worthwhile to question them about the ever-elusive Jonathan Drake, since the people there are acquainted with him too." He sighed and, setting the ledger back down on the desk, wrote a few more notes. "I'll also have to pay a visit to the tavern where Geoffrey claims he met the man. I'm afraid I'll be home late again tomorrow."

"Do you know which tavern it is?"

"Yes, Mr. Geoffrey gave me the address. It's a small place, rather hidden away. Most taverns have large signs displayed prominently outside their door. This one…well, you wouldn't know it was there unless you knew it was there. The alley where I found the Hartford man runs right behind it. There's a back door from the place, probably the kitchen, which opens right onto that alley."

"What is the name of the tavern?"

"It doesn't have one."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm sure the regulars have an unofficial name for it. Perhaps they merely refer to it by the owner's name. The constabulary refers to it as the Black Cat Tavern, because of a picture inside. Or rather, a woodcarving with a painted design."

"Of a black cat obviously," Katrina laughed.

"Is that the picture with the cat and the fiddle?" Stephen suddenly piped up from the arm chair in the corner of the room.

Until that moment he'd been engrossed in a book on anatomy that Ichabod gave him when he returned home from his meeting with Thomas Geoffrey. The boy was eager to become a detective and assist him with his cases, after all, so Ichabod agreed to begin training him in earnest if he promised not to engage in such foolhardy behavior again, at least not without permission. In addition to the anatomy book in his hands Stephen had five other books from Ichabod, all piled on the end table beside his chair; books on chemistry, weaponry, even some basics on criminal law. The child appeared determined to get through every one of them that evening.

Ichabod stared slack-jawed at him for a time before speaking. "Don't tell me you found your way there yesterday."

"A few people were going in with baggage and as I walked past I could see through the open door that it was a public place, a tavern from the looks of it. So I went in and asked whether they let out rooms and if so, had a man named Jonathan Drake taken a room."

"Stephen," Ichabod began, shaking his head in astonishment. "How did people react to you when you were questioning them? Especially in that place?"

"I think they thought I was an orphaned boy looking for my father," he answered. "They seemed to feel sorry for me."

"You do seem to have managed to keep that waif look about you," Katrina teased him, laughing.

A smile spread unwittingly across Ichabod's face though he tried to remain serious at first then he began to laugh too.

**oooOooo**

Ichabod immediately went to speak with Thomas Geoffrey during their recess for lunch the next day. Geoffrey didn't want to lose his place on the bench, or even leave anything there to keep his place, and so he never left the court room once he was seated. He sat in that spot all day, sketching, observing. Ichabod had mentioned this to Katrina the previous evening. The first thing that occurred to her was that Mr. Geoffrey didn't eat the entire day. This worried her and she had therefore packed double of each item in his lunch sack, apparently intending to feed Thomas Geoffrey as well as her husband.

They sat together on the bench and Ichabod casually offered him some of his food when he took out his lunch. Thomas Geoffrey had made it clear when they first met that he didn't like to accept charity so Ichabod didn't allude to the fact that there was extra.

"I'm famished so I must eat now, but I don't wish to be rude and sit here eating when you have nothing. Please take something if you're hungry for lunch."

"Thank you," Geoffrey replied, taking one of the sandwiches that Ichabod offered and glancing at the rest of the spread that Katrina had packed into Ichabod's lunch sack. "Does your wife always feed you so much food, Constable?"

"Sometimes," he admitted after swallowing the bite of apple that he'd taken. "I'm often distracted and neglect to eat, or I just don't eat very much. She worries and tries to make up for it by serving me extra sometimes. I often try to hide the fact that I've skipped a meal but she's never fooled."

"It's nice to have a woman who loves you so much."

"Yes," Ichabod answered softly. "It is."

"I was engaged to be married once but it didn't work out. It was probably for the best. My circumstances have been less than ideal. She would have had to share the burden."

They ate in silence then.

"Mr. Geoffrey," Ichabod began when he had finished eating. "I neglected to ask you yesterday evening, but would you mind if I took that drawing of the man from Hartford?"

"You wish to show it to the proprietors of that tavern and question them about him?"

"Exactly."

"To be honest I don't want to rip this page out of the book. There's another sketch on the other side. But I'd be happy to accompany you to the tavern this evening. I can sketch another picture of the man for you, which I can leave with you, but I'm sure you would like to ask the staff about me too. Well, I'll be right there and you can ask them if they recognize me. And we can show them the sketch."

"Thank you. I appreciate your…willingness to assist."

"I don't remember what day of the week it was that we met. Or rather, evening. But there was a nasty brawl that night. Several constables came into the place to break it up."

"Thank you for that bit of information. I'm sure one of the constables filed a report of that brawl, so it should be easy to track the day," Ichabod told him.

"When did you find the man in the alley?"

"I found him on the seventh of March, which was a Friday. It was in the morning, shortly after my shift began."

"I think the same staff works every night. There should be at least one person there tonight who was there on the evening the man was."

People began to file back into the court room. Having decided to meet in front of the Tontine after they had adjourned and when his shift ended, Ichabod stood up and left him to go back to his station along the side aisle.

The Burgomaster emerged from his chambers and called the Court to order, then Assistant Attorney General Colden finished his direct examination of the victim's cousin, whom she had been living with ever since she arrived in New York. His line of questioning was meant to prove one of Eldridge's motives. It centered on the victim's alleged pregnancy and the fact that James Eldridge was the father of the unborn child. She'd expected Mr. Eldridge to marry her, and in fact the cousin testified that they'd had plans to marry. But James Eldridge, not wishing to take responsibility for her and their unborn child, murdered her in order to avoid the marriage.

The defendant's counsel James Watkins stood up then and began to cross-examine the witness. His conclusions, which he managed to show fairly convincingly through his cross, boiled down to two things: first, although it would have been the decent and honorable thing to do James Eldridge was under no obligation to marry the girl simply because she was pregnant; and second, there was no conclusive proof that the victim had been pregnant. He dismissed the testimony that the cousin gave regarding the subject of the alleged pregnancy as hearsay at best then even went as far as to suggest that the victim could have possibly been lying about it in order to entrap Mr. Eldridge into marrying her.

In moments the court room was filled with angry hissing and the sounds of benches creaking as the spectators became irate.

"Order!" the Burgomaster called out several times in a curt and authoritative tone, striking his gavel with each bark of the word.

Instead of quieting down the court room actually seemed to fill with the buzz of more voices. Constable Whitten signaled to Ichabod and the other constables to close off the perimeter that they'd made in the room around the spectators.

"I said order!" the Burgomaster shouted finally, slamming his gavel down then rising to his feet. "So help me, if there is not order in this court room immediately I will have each and every one of you hauled off to The Commons and thrown in jail! We have plenty of room there for everyone."

A hush instantly fell over the room and the Burgomaster sat back down. "Mr. Watkins, did you have any additional questions for this witness?"

"No, Honorable Burgomaster."

"Redirect, Mr. Colden?"

The Assistant Attorney General stood up and asked the witness if the victim had seen a doctor in order to find out if she was indeed with child.

"Objection," Mr. Watkins called out, rising to his feet, before the witness could reply. "Again, this is hearsay."

"If the Honorable Burgomaster will allow it I can call the physician in question as a witness…"

James Watkins continued. "The defense will accept the testimony of that physician if and when my esteemed adversary brings him here. But coming from this witness it is hearsay. In addition, now that testimony concerning this subject has come before the jury the defense would like to bring in a physician to examine the victim's corpse…"

"Constable Whitten, please have one of your men escort the jury out of the room," the Burgomaster immediately interrupted the defense attorney sharply. "This is not something that they should hear, Mr. Watkins."

Constable Whitten signaled for one of the constables stationed near them to lead the jury out of the room. There was only the sound of footsteps and the door out to the jury room creaking open and then closed.

"Alright, Mr. Watkins," the Burgomaster said when they were gone. "You may continue now."

"Honorable Burgomaster," Mr. Watkins began. "In the days after Mr. Eldridge was arrested on suspicion of this crime defense counsel wished to bring in a physician who would thoroughly examine the victim's corpse, inside as well as out. We believe that the superficial examination of inspecting the wounds on the body that physicians carried out was insufficient. The Court denied our request at the time. I wish to renew my request now since the prosecutor has brought information concerning the alleged pregnancy before the jury."

"What does one thing have to do with the other?" Mr. Colden demanded. "If she did see a physician concerning her pregnancy he can testify to any conversation he had with her about her symptoms."

"I have to agree," the Burgomaster said. "And I don't see any benefit in cutting a dead woman open. The idea is quite barbaric."

"The benefit, Honorable Burgomaster, would be a conclusive determination as to whether the victim was or was not with child," Watkins continued. "While it's true that any doctor she visited could have judged from her symptoms that she might be with child, any symptoms she suffered could have also been caused by something other than pregnancy. But a physician would be able to answer that beyond any doubt immediately upon cutting open the womb. My esteemed adversary has argued the point of her alleged pregnancy as proof of my client's motive. If there is the possibility that this motive can be definitively refuted defense must be allowed every opportunity to do so."

Ichabod listened spellbound to James Watkins' argument, praying that the Burgomaster would finally set aside his narrow, outdated notions and grant the defense counsel this request. He wanted to cry out and beg him to do so.

The Burgomaster was silent for several minutes.

"I would like to consider this matter further, as I don't believe it's something to be decided too hastily," he said finally. "Mr. Colden, I'm sustaining Mr. Watkins' objection of hearsay, and you will refrain from asking this witness any more questions concerning the victim's alleged pregnancy. You may call her physician as a witness and question him." He turned to the witness, who had not left the stand. "Miss Grey, did she tell you that she saw a physician concerning her condition?"

"No, sir. She told me that she believed she was pregnant, but she never mentioned if she saw a doctor about it."

"Was there a doctor she saw regularly when she was ill?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Mr. Colden, you may call this doctor as a witness if you wish. Mr. Watkins, I will accept from you by tomorrow morning at nine o'clock a request in writing for the exhumation and examination by a physician of the victim's body and your arguments in favor of this. You will deliver a copy to me by then, as well as a copy to Mr. Colden. Mr. Colden, you will have until Friday morning at the same hour to submit your reply with any objections to the request. I will read both submissions and consider the matter, and will plan to make a ruling on Monday morning. Constable Whitten, bring the jury back in."

Constable Whitten went off to bring back the jury and the other constable, who had escorted them out and had remained with them. Ichabod stared incredulously at the Burgomaster, hardly able to believe that he was willing to even consider this matter. He actually felt joyful about it until the Burgomaster looked up and caught his eye, fixing him with a glare that could have easily burned his skin off. Ichabod averted his eyes as nonchalantly as possible.

When the jury was seated Mr. Colden completed his redirect. Mr. Watkins had no additional questions and the witness was dismissed.

Two more witnesses testified that day and they were adjourned at five o'clock. As James Eldridge exited the building with his counsel a mob descended on them. People that had observed the proceedings were infuriated at the insinuations that James Watkins had made when he cross-examined the victim's cousin and word had already spread to those folks that hadn't been able to view the trial. Constable Whitten ordered Ichabod and another constable named Foster to protect Eldridge and Watkins. Ichabod took James Eldridge's arm and Constable Foster took James Watkins' arm. They escorted them through the mob with their pistols drawn and the rabble reluctantly and grudgingly stood back to clear a path for them.

After leaving Mr. Eldridge in his cell and parting from Mr. Watkins, who remained behind to speak with his client, they made their way back to the Court House.

"It will be a miracle if this night ends without something awful happening," Constable Foster muttered as they reached the corner and saw that the mob was still rioting.

Constable Forster's remark was prophetic. By the time peace had been restored and the dust had cleared, which was long after dark had fallen, there were fifteen wounded lying on the ground.


	9. Incongruity

_**8. Incongruity**_

When Ichabod finally arrived at the Tontine Coffee House that night Mr. Horn the proprietor, a tall well-dressed man with deep-set dark eyes and a sallow complexion, told him that Thomas Geoffrey was in his room and was expecting him. He sent the lanky young man who had been lingering behind the front desk upstairs to inform him that his visitor had arrived. In the mean time Ichabod decided to ask Horn about Jonathan Drake.

"I believe that he tried to take a room here but you had no vacancies. He arrived in New York on the evening of the twenty-third of March."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Constable. I know Jonathan Drake very well, and I can assure you that he has not been here in quite some time. He lives in Hartford and only comes to the Tontine every few months to conduct business. And he always writes ahead of time to reserve a room."

"The other…someone was here two days ago to ask about him. He was told that Jonathan Drake did attempt to secure lodging with you on the evening of the twenty-third. I am trying to find him and was hoping someone here might know where he went afterward. Perhaps they suggested an alternative place of lodging."

But Horn shook his head. "I don't know who gave your acquaintance this information, Constable, but he must have been mistaken. As I said, Mr. Drake writes ahead of time. We received no correspondence from him and he was not here."

"My question is connected with a murder that occurred several weeks ago. It's possible that Jonathan Drake has information regarding this case. If you know where he is I urge you to tell me."

His demeanor and tone of voice remained cool. "If I hear from Mr. Drake I'll contact you, Constable Crane. But as of now I have no information."

Realizing that he was stonewalled, for now at any rate, Ichabod dropped this subject and turned the conversation back to Thomas Geoffrey. He explained that he was interested in offering him work and asked if he knew him to be reliable.

"He's come on…hard times," Horn replied. "Make no mistake though, he's a good man. He's honest, and very bright. Whatever you are hiring him to do he'll do your job well, and he won't play you false."

"What happened to him…?"

He shook his head again. "It is not up to me to tell you. A man's personal business is exactly that."

For several moments Ichabod quietly studied the man's face. "He must be a very good friend indeed to warrant so much of your protection," he said thoughtfully. "I doubt lodging is inexpensive above the Tontine Coffee House, yet you've allowed him to secure a room here, likely _gratis_. And you've possibly turned away a well-off patron who would pay for that room."

Horn didn't respond and in the next moment Geoffrey appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Good evening, Constable Crane."

He nodded to Horn in acknowledgement then he and Ichabod left the coffee house.

"Please forgive my delay, Mr. Geoffrey."

"It's alright. I didn't stay for the outcome of that riot but people were talking about it here. I knew that you would be delayed, that maybe you wouldn't even be able to meet tonight."

"Yesterday evening we spoke about Jonathan Drake and you said that you know him. I happen to know from someone who was working at the desk on Monday that he tried to take a room at the Tontine on the twenty-third of March. Yet when I spoke to Mr. Horn just before you came down he denied it."

"Perhaps there is a misunderstanding as to what day it was that he arrived. If I remember correctly Jonathan Drake last came to New York at the end of February."

"No. Mr. Horn claimed just now that Mr. Drake hasn't been to the Tontine in quite some time. Why do you suppose I'm receiving two different stories from two men working at the same establishment?"

Geoffrey shrugged. "I honestly couldn't say."

Ichabod suppressed an annoyed sigh. "Neither can I."

They made their way to the tavern. The Black Cat, or simply Augie's Place as most of the patrons referred to it, actually had a warm, cozy atmosphere inside, despite the questionable neighborhood it was situated in. Upon walking through the front door there was a fireplace in the wall to the right and small couches set up beside it, facing each other. Directly ahead and to the left were wooden tables and chairs, and though people mostly came into the tavern to drink the place also served a limited selection of supper fare. At the far end of the room opposite the front door was the bar, and behind it a doorway that led back into the kitchen. The large wood carving with the painted design that gave the establishment its name, at least among the constabulary, hung on the wall behind the bar as well. The warm glow from the fireplace and the candles in the sconces set into the walls kept the place well lit.

It was quite crowded when they stepped inside and Geoffrey glanced quickly around the room. He caught the eye of the barmaid, a buxom young woman of about twenty with raven hair, who was laughing and flirting gaily with a group of men seated at a table in the far left corner of the room. Her plain light blue dress flattered her figure and her soft dark curls were pulled back attractively with a matching ribbon. She nodded and gave Geoffrey a light smile when she saw him. Then, after saying something to the group that she'd been cavorting with, something that made them burst into laughter, she sashayed toward the bar carrying two empty glasses.

Geoffrey began to head toward her and Ichabod followed.

"Good evening, Lydia," he greeted her politely when they reached the bar. "Is Augie here?"

"I haven't seen him for awhile, but he's around somewhere."

She spoke in a sweet tone and her smile was amicable but Ichabod thought he could sense tension behind her pleasant façade for some reason.

"You're still angry at me. I don't blame you."

The girl didn't answer Geoffrey, instead busying herself with pouring two more drinks.

"Is he in the back room?" he pressed.

"I'll look for him in a moment. Those gentlemen are waiting for refills."

"This constable is here to ask about the man who was killed in the alley behind this tavern."

Lydia's movements ceased abruptly. She paused for a moment then turned around to face them, fixing her gaze on Ichabod. Her dark eyes widened and her lips parted.

"Well I must say, you're the handsomest constable that's ever walked in here," she said, leaning in toward him and eyeing him in a way that made him blush all the way to the roots of his hair. Without thinking he lifted his left hand and rested it on the bar where the wedding band around his fourth finger would be visible.

"I am Constable Ichabod Crane. This is official business," Ichabod replied briskly. "Would you please either ask him to come out here or take us to him directly?"

After a quick but meaningful glance at Geoffrey she turned obediently and disappeared through the door behind the bar. When she reappeared she was accompanied by Augie Smith, a short man with a stocky build. He looked quite surprised when he saw Thomas Geoffrey.

"Hello, Geoffrey! How are you? Been a few weeks since I've seen you around here. You look different."

Lydia glanced at Geoffrey nervously then turned her gaze back to Augie Smith.

Smith turned to look at Ichabod. "Good evening, Constable. I remember you from a few weeks ago. I'm afraid I didn't have much to offer you then."

"Yes. But Mr. Geoffrey has drawn a sketch of the man that I was asking you about. Perhaps it will help you to remember something. Or maybe someone else who was here will remember after looking at it."

Geoffrey withdrew his ledger from a pocket in his tattered coat and opened it to the page with the sketch. Lydia leaned on the bar and gazed at the picture as he turned the book so they could see it right-side-up. Augie Smith glowered at her sternly, but she determinedly bent over the sketch and examined it intently.

"You're very talented, Geoffrey," she said.

"See to the customers, Lydia," Smith snapped, shooing her away.

She grudgingly left off looking at the page and came around the bar, crossing behind Ichabod and Geoffrey on her way to the tables. Ichabod involuntarily took a sharp intake of breath when she intentionally brushed against his body as she passed.

"I do remember him," Smith said, nodding. "Geoffrey, this was the man you were drinking with when you were last here."

"That's right. It was the night the constables had to come in…"

"Yes, of course. That was quite a night, Constable Crane," he explained.

"Why didn't you mention the brawl to me a few weeks ago, Mr. Smith?"

He shrugged. "I didn't think to mention it. The fighting happened inside the tavern, not in the alley behind it. And this man never got involved. He kept to the sidelines, as did Geoffrey here. If I remember correctly they were both a little worse for wear."

"I was still in perfect control of myself," Geoffrey insisted.

"_Look at me, I'm walking__,"_ Smith sing-songed. _"__Look at me, I'm talking…__"_

Ichabod frowned impatiently. "Did you see this man leave?"

Smith ceased singing at Geoffrey and turned back to Ichabod with a shake of his head. "As I said, it was quite a night. Complete chaos and I spent most of the night after the place was cleared groveling and bargaining with Constable Green, who was threatening to make me close the tavern."

"What about Mr. Geoffrey? Did you see him leave?"

"No." His glance shifted uneasily to Geoffrey. "Are you in trouble, Geoffrey?"

"Maybe," he replied with a shrug. "It appears that I'm the last person who saw the man alive. At least according to the evidence gathered by the constabulary so far. And I was possibly the last person who spoke with him."

Ichabod noticed that Lydia remained in earshot, listening to their conversation even as she cleared away empty glasses, poured more drinks and fended off unwanted and inappropriate attentions, managing to remain good-natured as she did so. It was clear that _if_ she was going to consort with the customers _she_ would be the one to choose which ones she would and would not consort with. Other than Ichabod himself, the gentlemen at the table in the corner were the ones receiving her favor tonight.

At times she laughed loudly when she thought Smith might be eyeing her.

"Well, Constable, as far as I heard, Geoffrey and the man were just chatting. Neither of them was involved with the outbreak later in the night, and they weren't fighting with each other either. Their conversation was sociable, friendly."

"Do you know his name?"

He shook his head.

"If you remember anything else at all about this man please contact me at the Watch House."

"I will."

Lydia returned to the bar and set a tray of glasses down with a clatter. Augie Smith glared at her but she ignored him, fixing her gaze straight on Ichabod. His face began to flame as her eyes traveled from his face down along his body, then back up to his face. Her stare remained on his lips and his eyes widened in disbelief when he saw her lick hers.

"I don't suppose you'd like to ask me any questions, would you, Constable?" she cooed voluptuously, leaning in toward him once again. "I'd be very helpful, you know."

Ichabod's mouth fell open. Smith came out from around the bar and raised his hand, smacking her across the face with great force. Her hand flew up to cover her cheek and all conversation in the tavern ceased the second Augie Smith landed the blow. For a moment a thick silence hung over the room; then it was broken when Lydia burst into loud hysterical laughter.

"Get back to work, Lydia," Smith hissed at her.

But Lydia's laughing continued, rising to an almost maniacal pitch. Augie was going to hit her again, his hand curled into a fist this time, but Ichabod stepped forward, placing himself between them. She immediately inched closer to him and seized hold of his arm.

"My handsome champion," she crooned softly.

"Get back to work, Lydia," Smith repeated, attempting to circuit around Ichabod to get to her. "And don't make me say it again."

She released Ichabod's arm and moved off to go about her business, but not before pressing her body against his and leaning up to speak into his ear. He gasped involuntarily.

"Meet me in the alley behind the tavern when you're finished speaking with my father," she whispered.

He was struck by the words _my father_.

"Lydia! Leave the constable alone before he arrests you for soliciting him!"

She stalked off sullenly toward a table where a new group of men that had just entered the tavern were taking their seats.

"Please excuse her, Constable Crane. The girl isn't completely right in the head, and she says and does strange things at times. She's crazy and just wants to draw attention to herself. I hope you won't hold it against her and…"

"Do you have any regular customers here tonight that might have seen the man that night?" Ichabod continued to probe, ignoring Smith's comments about his daughter. The sight of the man hitting her in front of a roomful of customers had left a bad taste in Ichabod's mouth; but she was his child after all and the constabulary's right to intervene with the way a man behaved toward his own family was dubious at best.

"Sure, these are all regular customers. I couldn't tell you if any of them were here that night, but you can show them the picture and ask around…oh, you see those two men in the corner there? That's Tulley and Scott. They were two of the first men to come to blows that night. I can't guarantee that they were paying attention but you can ask."

"Thank you."

Showing the sketch to the patrons in the tavern didn't provide any breakthrough though. Tulley and Scott remembered fighting on the night in question, but everything else was a blank for them. Most of the men gathered that evening didn't even recognize the man in the drawing. A few times he happened to look up in Lydia's direction as she gracefully flounced around the room. She smiled and winked at him meaningfully each and every time she caught him glancing at her.

"This errand wasn't very helpful after all," Geoffrey said ruefully as they stepped back out into the night after Ichabod had finished his circuit of the tavern.

"So it would seem," Ichabod sighed.

He drifted into thought as he gazed off into the darkness, feeling more stymied than ever. It had been a long trying day and his interviews of the proprietors of both establishments had proven fruitless and confusing, leaving him frustrated.

"I'll sketch a copy for you tonight and bring it to Court for you tomorrow morning," Geoffrey offered after a long while, breaking the silence and drawing Ichabod out of his musings.

"A copy?" Ichabod repeated distractedly, looking at him with a bewildered expression.

"Then you'll have it to show to people whenever you need, in other places."

"Ah…yes. That's very kind of you, Mr. Geoffrey. Thank you."

"Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight."

Ichabod fell into a deep reverie once more as he watched Geoffrey make his way up the street. He stood there for several minutes after his companion had turned the corner and disappeared from sight, thinking of his conversation with Augie Smith and of his earlier conversation of the evening with Mr. Horn. Stephen Masbath was told by someone in the place that Jonathan Drake had been there and Ichabod didn't doubt the boy's story. He had no reason to make up such a thing and it would be easy enough to confirm – he would ask Stephen for a description of the man he'd spoken to, or maybe even bring him with him on his next errand at the coffee house. With any luck the person he'd spoken to would be there and he could point them out.

He thought about his brief but already interesting and downright bizarre acquaintance with Thomas Geoffrey. And he thought about Augie Smith's daughter Lydia; her brazen behavior toward him and her reaction when her father hit her. It seemed so random and odd. He felt sorry for her; for all he knew Augie Smith hit her in that manner – or worse – every day. Still…was she _looking_ for trouble? He was in uniform after all! To behave in such a manner in front of her father, and then whispering in his ear and asking him to meet her in the alley! Was she trying to get herself arrested? There certainly were enough lunatics in this city, and insanity didn't seem to discriminate between the sexes. Her father claimed she wasn't completely right in the head and suggested that she merely wanted to call attention to herself. But Ichabod wasn't completely convinced that her father's character was so positive either. He also couldn't fathom why she would want to blatantly solicit him and end up in jail.

And what had Thomas Geoffrey done to her to make her angry?

Ichabod came back to awareness suddenly, roused from his thoughts, and shook his head at his own foolishness. It was late in the night and this day couldn't end quickly enough for him; yet here he was standing in a daze on the street in a dubious neighborhood, woolgathering and completely losing track of his surroundings.

He began to walk in the direction of home.

**oooOooo**

From the time they stepped into the court room the next day the spectators were restless and irritated, and although there were no outbursts there was hissing and grumbling when defense counsel asked certain questions. The Burgomaster had to call for order several times during witness testimony and at one point he threatened to seal the court room going forward.

For the fourth day in a row Mr. Geoffrey sat in the same spot on the bench, where he'd been planted since quarter to eight that morning. During the lunch recess he gestured to Ichabod. There was a sheet of paper in his hand. When Ichabod approached he discovered that it was a copy of the sketch of the Hartford man he'd found in the alley, as Geoffrey had promised the previous evening.

Ichabod tucked the sketch into his own ledger and thanked him. He took a seat beside him and took out his lunch, asking if he could look at the drawings he'd made that day and gesturing for Geoffrey to help himself. While Geoffrey picked up one of the apples and bit into it Ichabod took his ledger from him and began examining the sketches from that morning.

"That doctor was difficult to draw," Geoffrey said, motioning to the page that Ichabod was now looking at. It was a drawing of one of the physicians who had performed a superficial post-mortem examination of the victim's body. "There was a coldness in his manner and I felt compelled to try to capture it."

"You captured it quite accurately," Ichabod assured him. "And eloquently."

A range of emotions seemed to flit across Geoffrey's face in a mere moment. He lowered his head and his posture seemed to sag as if under some heavy weight. "I'll never understand how anyone can detach themselves so." He raised his head after a long pause, his brow knitted in thought and his face creased into a frown, as if something was deeply disturbing him. Ichabod studied him intently and Geoffrey, sensing his stare, turned to him and smiled wistfully. "But then…that's why I didn't pursue a profession in the medical arts."

"Well, it is a different experience working with a dead body than working with living patients," Ichabod said quietly. The comments that Geoffrey made and the topics he spoke of sometimes certainly were odd. "And it requires effort enough to not become physically ill in the first place. Especially in the beginning – it takes time to get used to it."

"Of course."

"Forgive me for being rude, Mr. Geoffrey…but if you don't mind me saying you're something of a riddle."

Geoffrey nodded and grinned at him. "As are you, Constable Crane."

Ichabod turned a piercing gaze on him. He sensed that Mr. Geoffrey was attempting to turn the tables on him again and he didn't like it. Nor did he like the knowing expression that he was seeing on his face.

"Your life would be a lot easier if you did as you were told like every other constable, if you didn't try to change things."

"There are things that need to be changed," he replied stiffly.

"Very true. But you could easily leave it for someone else to do. Why not do as you're told, collect your pay and go home? You wouldn't be stirring things up and annoying your superiors then…you wouldn't be at odds with them so often."

"I'm accustomed to arguing with my superiors, and they haven't dismissed me yet," Ichabod replied curtly. He shook his head and sighed. "Tell me, Mr. Geoffrey, have you been _watching_ me?"

"As you noted the other day, I spend a good deal of time in the court room."

"Hmm. And you've observed quite a bit about me apparently."

"Yes. But also…I did know something about you before…"

"If you're presuming to know me based on a few things you've heard from my father you're making a grave error, Mr. Geoffrey," he snapped. "And I will insist that you refrain from discussing him with me."

"When I mentioned your relationship during our meeting at the coffee house I distressed you…I didn't mean to…"

"Indeed you did!" Ichabod exploded angrily. "You intended to manipulate the conversation…to manipulate me…"

He trailed off and took a deep breath. When he'd managed to calm himself he continued in an even but firm voice.

"Look here, Mr. Geoffrey. I don't know who you really are and I don't know what has happened in your life lately. Apparently it is something very unfortunate, possibly even tragic. It's a mystery to me why you and I have crossed paths, why every person from Hartford and my father's church has crossed my path since I discovered the body of that man from Hartford. But I _will_ solve that mystery as well as that of the Hartford man's murder, whatever you or anyone else believes they might do to distract me from the truth. And I won't tolerate anymore mind games."

"Mind games? What mind games?"

"Mr. Geoffrey, the edition of the Hartford newspaper that the man was carrying when he was killed contained my father's obituary, and it was open right to that page!" he exclaimed. "Whoever he was, I have no doubt that he came here to this city to find me, to bring me the news of his death!"

Thomas Geoffrey's face fell and he looked truly flummoxed. Taking advantage of this vulnerability Ichabod pounced.

"Yes, Mr. Geoffrey, he knew my father and was probably a member of his church, _as you were_. If you were telling the truth when you said you attended my father's church then you _must_ have known him from the congregation, before you came here!"

Ichabod leaned back and folded his arms, self-satisfied as he watched his adversary lose his resolve before his eyes.

"You've come to the wrong conclusion, Constable Crane," Geoffrey finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse.

"Oh? Please enlighten me. Because it appears to me that at the very least you are withholding important information and obstructing justice – _at the very least_," he emphasized. "I would be perfectly within my right to place you under arrest this instant and drag you to the Watch House on suspicion of murder."

Geoffrey licked his lips and swallowed hard. "Perfectly within your right, Constable Crane…but I'm being completely honest when I say that I did not know the man before I met him at Augie's tavern that night. I can't explain the obituary. Perhaps it's a coincidence."

"There are too many coincidences in this case."

"I don't know how I can convince you," he lamented. "But I'm telling you the absolute truth. I really didn't know him before I met him at Augie's. However…I will go quietly, Constable, should you wish to take me in now."

**oooOooo**

"It was good to have you home for dinner again tonight." Katrina approached him where he sat at the writing desk in the sitting room and placed her hands on his shoulders, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. "The Burgomaster is keeping his word about these five o'clock adjournments."

"And there was no rioting today, so I was on my way home by five-thirty."

She moved off and took a seat on the sofa. Ichabod closed his ledger and stood up, going over to sit beside her. He draped an arm around her. She inched closer and snuggled against his chest as he brought his other arm around to embrace her.

"How is Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Enjoying your lunches," Ichabod replied without missing a beat and she laughed. He frowned and she reached up and stroked his cheek tenderly.

"You very successfully kept up a lighthearted façade during dinner but you didn't fool me for a moment, Ichabod Crane. I know something happened today."

"I…I don't…"

He trailed off and shook his head, at a loss for words.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

Ichabod told her about his confrontation with Geoffrey in the court room that day during the lunch recess.

"He swears that he didn't know the man before that night in the tavern and he isn't wavering from his claim. But they were members of the same congregation…"

"Was it a big congregation?"

"It couldn't have been that big! Even if they had never exchanged names he would have recognized the man's face!"

"But he admitted that he couldn't explain it. Maybe it really was a coincidence."

"No. It was not a coincidence."

"I've never met Mr. Geoffrey, so I certainly couldn't say what is really going on. But from the things that you have told me he seems to be drawn to you, Ichabod."

"Drawn to me?"

"Yes. He sought you out when you were speaking with Mr. Latham outside of the Court House, under the pretense of looking for work. He continues to come around you, to remain in your sight. And he seems to be going out of his way to help you in your investigation. He socializes with you almost! It seems to me that if he was guilty of anything he would avoid you and any other constable at all costs."

"Well, I've said before that I don't think he's completely in his right mind. He may be guilty of something and rather than choosing the rational course of action, which would be to avoid me, he's putting himself in a situation where he _could_ get caught."

"That makes very little sense."

"Agreed, but I've encountered people who enjoyed this…this cat and mouse type of contest. Perhaps Mr. Geoffrey wants to see how far he can go, to see if he can help me out with the investigation even…to remain right under my nose and still manage to fool me."

"But that's insane."

"Of course it is. Anyway, Mr. Geoffrey has certainly played at least one game with me, trying to manipulate my emotions by bringing my father into it – a very low and dirty tactic, too."

"Now that you've made it clear to him just how you feel about that I doubt he'll repeat the tactic." She paused. "Perhaps you're drawn to him too."

"I?"

"Every day in Court you sit with him at lunch."

"That is only so all that food you pack doesn't go to waste."

"My guess is you would sit with him anyway. And you've spent a lot of time with him lately after Court even."

"But that is because I've been questioning him about many things…things that just happen to come up. He happens to mention something that sparks a connection and more questions. I happen to catch a glimpse of a drawing of the man whose murder I'm investigating _in his ledger_."

She smiled and ruffled his hair. "And you did not arrest him today. He offered to go in with you quietly. Why didn't you take him?"

"Because I have no faith in our system of justice…oh, certainly it's changing for the better. I almost fell over yesterday when the Burgomaster ruled that he would actually consider the idea of exhuming the body of the victim for the sake of true justice. But…if I apprehended Mr. Geoffrey now the High Constable would consider the matter closed and it would not be pursued further, even if I made it clear that I was only suspicious at this time, even if indisputable evidence that would clear him suddenly came to light. Mr. Geoffrey may indeed be guilty. But he's not the only person I've suspicions about…I've had my doubts about Geoffrey Latham as well. He was definitely withholding information, possibly lying outright. They both acted as if they don't know one another and I don't believe it. Maybe they're working together." He shook his head. "No. If and when I arrest Mr. Geoffrey, or anyone else, it will be when I have hard evidence and am certain beyond a doubt that he is guilty."

"There is something about Mr. Geoffrey that you admire though…or that you are simply drawn to. Despite the fact that you've suspected him of being untruthful or withholding something all along, you like him. I think you don't want to arrest him. And you're not repelled by him, the way you were by Mr. Latham. I believe that he actually fascinates you, that you are intrigued by him."

"Did I say I was repelled by Mr. Latham?"

"You didn't use the word 'repelled' but it was very clear that there was something about him that you didn't like. It was obvious after the first time you met him."

"Hmm." He was silent for awhile, thoughtful. "That is true. Speaking of Mr. Latham, I haven't seen or spoken to him since we went to the cemetery to exhume the body. I think it's time I made contact with him again. Maybe tomorrow after Court adjourns if things remain quiet. I hope it's quiet – it's Friday. And then we'll have the weekend off from this confounded trial. If not tomorrow, I'll go Saturday."

"Can I go with you on Saturday?" Stephen piped up from the armchair again. "I'd like to hear the way you question a suspect."

Ichabod turned to him and gazed at him warmly. "Actually, I did want to return to the Tontine Coffee House with you. When I spoke to the proprietor Mr. Horn about Jonathan Drake yesterday he claimed that he wasn't there on the night you asked about."

"But I spoke to someone…"

"I don't doubt you for a moment, Stephen. Mr. Horn was lying and I don't know why. But I will find out. Shall we go Saturday morning? Hopefully the person you spoke to will be working and you can point him out to me. Then I can question both men together."

Stephen was thrilled with the idea. "I can stop at Mr. Latham's hotel tomorrow if you'd like too. To make sure he's still there and didn't go back to Hartford."

"Alright, you can check if he's still staying at City Hotel, but that's it for any detecting until Saturday."

"Did the men at the Tontine see the sketch yet?" Katrina asked.

"I highly doubt Mr. Geoffrey showed it to them. Of course now that I have a copy I could show them and ask them about him. Perhaps he also tried to take a room there."

Ichabod stood up and went to the desk to retrieve his ledger. When he'd sat down beside her again he removed the sheet of paper that he'd received from Geoffrey that day. Katrina leaned over and took it from him. To Ichabod's great surprise she shuddered convulsively at the sight of the drawing.

"Whoever he was, that is not a nice face. And didn't you say he was well-dressed when you found him?"

He leaned in and peered at the sketch again, trying to see what it was she was seeing. "You're right. His clothing is quite different in this sketch. I wonder if Mr. Geoffrey met him on a different night. It seems unlikely that this man changed his clothes between the time he drank with Geoffrey and the time he died."

She shivered again and handed the paper back to him. "Maybe it's simply the way Mr. Geoffrey drew him, the way he personally perceived him and put him on paper. But if I had to venture a guess about what type of a person this man was I'd guess that he was a criminal himself."

"I don't doubt it," Ichabod murmured softly, slipping his arm around her shoulders again and squeezing her. "You have an uncanny ability to see through everything and anyone, to get straight to the root of the matter."

Katrina settled against him and burrowed her head into his chest. Ichabod kissed the top of her hair and began to stroke her back. He continued to gaze at the sketch, studying the facial expression and the clothing, which was that of a working man and so unlike the fine clothing of a society gentleman or businessman that he'd found on the man's corpse.

"Everything about this case is filled with contradictions and…" he trailed off, searching for the right words, and shook his head in frustration. "On the one hand it's black, but then all of a sudden it's white. I must be losing my mind."

"What's on the back?" Katrina asked suddenly. She raised her head and reached out, taking the paper from him again and turning it over. "I thought he re-sketched a copy for you because he didn't want to rip the page out of his book with the other pictures."

Ichabod stared at the sketch on the reverse side in astonishment.

"Do you know who it is in the drawing?" she asked again.

"Yes. It's Geoffrey Latham. So…it appears that Mr. Geoffrey knows him after all."


	10. Convergence

_**9. Convergence**_

Ichabod was anxious to confront Thomas Geoffrey the next day concerning the drawing of Geoffrey Latham, but to his dismay his enigmatic new acquaintance wasn't at the Court House when he arrived with the other constables at quarter to eight. By the time the Burgomaster emerged and called everyone to order he still hadn't arrived. Considering that the man had arrived daily at the Court House at quarter to eight and spent each and every day sketching the trial religiously it was truly puzzling that he suddenly didn't appear today. Ichabod wondered if perhaps Geoffrey realized that he'd handed him the wrong sketch by accident and fled.

When the Burgomaster adjourned for the lunch break Ichabod walked to the Tontine Coffee House. Mr. Horn received him and sent someone up to knock on Thomas Geoffrey's door.

"Did you see him at all last night?" Ichabod asked Horn.

"No. I left here at seven yesterday evening. If and when Mr. Geoffrey returned it was after that."

"And you haven't seen him yet this morning?"

"No."

"Which room is Mr. Geoffrey's?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Which room is he staying in upstairs? I will be submitting a request to the Court for permission to search his room and possessions, and I would like to be as specific as possible in my report. However, if you don't wish to tell me that is certainly your prerogative."

Several minutes later the youth who had gone upstairs returned with the report that Mr. Geoffrey was not in his room.

"Thank you, Joseph. Please go back upstairs and take Constable Crane with you."

"Sir?" the young man questioned him, surprised.

"He would like to see Mr. Geoffrey's room."

Joseph's eyes widened and he looked stunned; but he finally nodded to Horn, took the set of keys that Horn held out to him and beckoned to Ichabod to follow him. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and the young man led him down a corridor, toward the back of the building. They reached a room at the end of the hall and Joseph opened the door for him. Ichabod stepped over the threshold and glanced about.

The room was quite spacious and contained a divan, an end table, three large chairs with plush cushions set around a round coffee table made of finished oak and a matching writing desk and chair in the corner. Ichabod stared at the luxurious lodgings, unable to believe that Mr. Geoffrey was allowed to stay here, and indefinitely, for free. Mr. Horn and the proprietors of the coffee house were indeed close friends; that, or Thomas Geoffrey had more financial resources than his appearance and attire suggested. Or perhaps some other arrangement had been made.

Ichabod's gaze drifted to the top of the writing desk, where Mr. Geoffrey's ledger lay. He walked over and rested his hand on it, wondering at the fact that it had been left behind. Ichabod had the impression that Geoffrey carried this book with him at all times.

He picked up the book and flipped it open, beginning to study each and every sketch Geoffrey had made. Joseph stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

"Mr. Constable, sir?" he began. "I will need to return to my post…"

"I shall not be too long, Joseph, and Mr. Horn gave you permission to accompany me."

"Yes, sir."

After flipping through several pages Ichabod came across a sketch of Geoffrey Latham that looked to be the same as the one Thomas Geoffrey had given to him. He withdrew his own ledger from his pocket and pulled out the loose sheet of paper that he'd received the previous day. Laying it beside the picture in Thomas Geoffrey's ledger he confirmed that they were indeed identical.

"I wonder," he murmured as a thought occurred to him.

He flipped both pages over and his eyes widened when he saw that the reverse side of each contained identical sketches of the murdered Hartford man. Mr. Geoffrey hadn't handed him a two-sided sketch by accident. For a reason that was as yet unknown to Ichabod Mr. Geoffrey had wanted him to see both sketches, to know that he knew Mr. Latham.

Ichabod tucked the loose page back into his own ledger and returned it to his pocket. He shut Geoffrey's ledger then turned and gestured to Joseph.

"I'm finished here. Thank you."

Ichabod stepped out of the room and Joseph locked the door behind them.

"Would you like me to leave a message for Mr. Geoffrey, Constable Crane?" Mr. Horn asked when Ichabod returned to the desk.

"Yes, please ask him to contact me at the Watch House as soon as possible. If I'm not there he is to leave me a message advising where and when I can contact him. I will return here tomorrow morning if I haven't heard from him before then."

Horn's eyebrows lifted in surprise but he only replied that he would pass along Ichabod's message.

"Please stress to him that it is quite urgent. Good afternoon, Mr. Horn."

Ichabod returned to the Court House directly after he finished speaking with Mr. Horn at the Tontine, knowing full well that Joseph had instructions to report back all of his activities in Geoffrey's room.

For the next few hours he was distracted, brooding about how he could go about searching for Mr. Geoffrey in the event that he didn't appear again. Fortunately the afternoon session proceeded smoothly and quietly, and at five o'clock the Burgomaster adjourned until Monday. Ichabod went back to the Watch House and asked to see a copy of the report filed by Constable Green concerning the brawl in the Black Cat at the beginning of March. He sat at his desk and read through the report twice. Then he wrote in his ledger, including key information that the report revealed, some of which he'd already noted previously.

He was reminded of the fact that there was a back door, which opened up off of the tavern's kitchen and into the alley behind it, where he'd found the body. Earlier, when he had no knowledge of the brawl in the tavern, it had not occurred to him that the back door would have any significance other than the fact that perchance a worker happened to be in the doorway and glimpsed something, perhaps the perpetrator running off. Now he suddenly saw it from a different vantage point. Naturally that door was for the staff's use only, but it was not impossible that on the night of the riot one or more of the patrons avoided arrest by sneaking into the kitchen and escaping the tavern through the back door. Quite possibly the man from Hartford had done so, as perhaps had Mr. Geoffrey. Maybe someone working there had assisted them.

"_As I said, it was quite a night. Complete chaos and I spent most of the night after the place was cleared groveling and bargaining with Constable Green, who was threatening to make me close the tavern."_

He remembered, word for word, Augie Smith's answer when he asked him if he saw the man leave. It was certainly plausible that he was too preoccupied with other things that night to notice anyone sneaking back into the kitchen.

"Or he lied," Ichabod muttered to himself. He scribbled another note in his ledger.

Constable Green had included a list of names of the people who had been arrested that night, which was in the leather-bound file with his report. Ichabod pulled out the list and began to peruse the names. None of the men on the list had been formally charged with any crime. They had merely appeared as a group before the Burgomaster the following morning, where they received a reprimand, paid a small amount of money to the Court and were then sent on their merry way.

Augie Smith did not have to appear in Court; Constable Green may have threatened to force him to close the tavern but that was under the condition of a recurring incident. This time he had conceded to give Smith another chance. Ichabod turned back in his ledger to the pages with the notes he'd made earlier when he interviewed Augie Smith the first time, shortly after the body was discovered. The riot occurred on a Thursday night, a busy Thursday night, and the place was more heavily staffed than it was when he returned with Mr. Geoffrey two nights previous. His eye roved over the page until he found the place where he'd written down the names of the two men working the bar that night, Joe and Will. It appeared that Lydia didn't work that evening nor had she been present when Ichabod questioned Augie Smith the first time.

Yet Lydia Smith and Thomas Geoffrey knew each other. She had been angry at him for some reason. Was it possible that she _was_ at the tavern that night? Maybe it was she who had snuck the Hartford man and Geoffrey out, to help them avoid arrest. Ichabod thought about his visit to the tavern with Geoffrey on Wednesday night, replaying the scene in his mind. Smith did seem anxious to shut Lydia up and get her out of the way, sending her off to see to the customers and refusing to allow her to remain while he asked questions.

"And I discounted her," he murmured to himself. "What a dolt I am."

He'd asked everyone in Augie's tavern about the Hartford man except Lydia. Confused and uncomfortable with her familiarity, assuming that she was merely being a tease and playing with him, he'd taken Augie Smith's patronizing and denigrating words about her seriously. It hadn't even occurred to him to question her after that.

Ichabod rose and returned the leather-bound file with the report to Green's desk. Then he left the Watch House and walked directly to the Black Cat.

Augie Smith was clearly surprised to see Ichabod in the tavern again.

"I'm looking for Mr. Geoffrey," he told him, after carefully surveying the room. "We…I was expecting to see him today and he never appeared. Was he here at all this afternoon?"

"Mr. Geoffrey doesn't come here very often. Until he came here with you the other night night I hadn't seen him since the night of the riot."

"I see," Ichabod replied with a nod. He glanced about, searching for Lydia. "When I was here the other night I never had a moment to speak with your daughter. I should like to speak with her now."

"Why?"

"Perhaps she saw something…"

"She didn't see anything."

"How do you know? You yourself said that you were involved with Constable Green and were not aware of everything that happened during and after the brawl."

"Joe and Will were working that night. Lydia wasn't in the bar."

"Nevertheless, I haven't spoken with her yet and I should like to ensure that my investigation is complete."

Smith's lip curled into a grimace.

"I should like to speak with her," he insisted. "It will not take long. If you refuse I can arrange to bring her to the Watch House and interview her there."

He agreed reluctantly, his face contorted into a deeply dissatisfied expression, and went to the door behind the bar, pushing it open.

"Lydia," he barked out. "Come out here."

It took her several minutes to appear. A dark bruise had formed on her cheek, no doubt from the blow Augie gave her the other night. The expression in her eyes was cool as she looked at Ichabod and she seemed completely disinterested. She leaned against the bar, arms folded, looking utterly bored and waiting for him to speak. He was taken somewhat aback by the sudden change in her behavior, simply because the change was so drastic.

"Good evening, Miss Smith," he began politely, withdrawing his ledger and opening it to a new page. He took out pen and ink, set it on the bar then dipped the pen and wrote the date at the top of the page. Underneath it he made a quick note about the extreme change in Lydia's affect and behavior.

"Were you in the bar on the night that the riot occurred?" he asked.

"I already…" Smith began. Instead of returning to his business he had remained with them, hovering over Lydia, his eyes boring into her.

"Please, Mr. Smith. I am asking her and would like to hear her answer. It is just a formality."

Smith glared, first at him and then at his daughter. Ichabod turned back to Lydia.

"Miss Smith, were you in the bar on that night?" he repeated.

Lydia's eyes shifted from Ichabod to her father then back to Ichabod. "No, I wasn't in the bar."

"Two men were working."

"Yes."

"Joe and Will," Ichabod pressed. "I see that they are working tonight as well. And yet you are here too."

Her gaze remained stony and she didn't answer or even nod.

"The other night when I was here you looked at the sketch that Mr. Geoffrey drew. You commented on Mr. Geoffrey's talent. Had you seen the man in the sketch before?"

Once again her gaze darted between him and her father. Then she shrugged. "It was a well-made drawing of a man. I thought so anyway."

"I see."

He wrote some more notes, partly to memorialize even the most trivial details, partly to give himself time to regroup and figure out how to further investigate. This interview was not proceeding well and Ichabod realized that it was due to Augie Smith's presence, confirming his suspicion that Smith had not wanted his daughter to answer any questions the other night and had purposely shooed her away. She knew something, or at the very least Augie Smith was afraid that she knew something. He was hovering over her in order to intimidate her so she wouldn't speak of it.

"Miss Smith, Mr. Geoffrey was supposed to meet me today and he never appeared. I'm somewhat concerned. I was wondering if perhaps you had seen him. Maybe he stopped in for a short time? Or perhaps you passed him in the street?"

She shook her head.

"Will that be all, Constable?" she said suddenly. "It's Friday and we always have a large crowd on Friday nights. I must return to the hearth and finish preparing dinner for the many patrons who will want to sup here."

"Of course," he answered dejectedly. "If you don't mind though…before you go, is there anything else you can tell me about the man from Hartford, or about Mr. Geoffrey?"

Lydia shook her head once more. At that moment a group of well-dressed men entered the bar and motioned to Augie Smith. These men must have been of some importance. Smith glanced at Ichabod nervously, told him he would be right back and hurried over to the new group, but not before giving his daughter a meaningful and cautionary look.

Ichabod turned back to Lydia, who had already made her way around the bar and was headed for the kitchen. He desperately tried to think of something to say that might delay her. As she walked through the door he could have sworn he heard her call back to him in a husky voice.

"I'm disappointed in you, Constable. You never asked me if I was working in the kitchen that night."

The door swung closed before Ichabod could even attempt to sputter a response. He stood for several minutes staring dumbfounded at the closed door. Then he quickly gathered his things, turned and hurried out of the tavern, nodding to Augie Smith as he passed by.

He dashed around the corner and into the alley behind the tavern. A long stretch of time passed after he knocked on the back door before Lydia opened it.

"I'm cooking, Constable, and my father may come back to the kitchen to…keep an eye on me. I cannot stay out here."

"On Wednesday night…you asked me to meet you here in the alley because you wished to speak freely with me…"

"I waited for as long as I could…you never came," she said, her tone accusatory.

"Forgive me, Miss Smith. I…I misunderstood your intention…" A blush crept across his cheeks and up into his ears. "I'm sorry."

She sniffed haughtily. "So now you want my help?"

"Please." He paused, waiting to see if she would turn away from him, disappear inside and slam the door in his face. But she didn't; she stood there watching him and he decided it was alright to move forward. "And so, you were here on that night?"

"Yes. Joe and Will were working in the bar. I was working in the kitchen the entire night. John came back into the kitchen when the constables began to show up and asked me to take him out this door."

"Who is John?"

"The man in the sketch that you showed everyone."

"Then, you did know him. Did you know him well?"

"As well as anyone could know him," she answered with a little giggle.

"Oh…I see…then he came to see you often when he was in the city?"

"When he was in the city? He never left the city. Well, maybe he traveled across the river into New Jersey sometimes."

"What?" Ichabod murmured, bewildered.

She stared at him, apparently unable to understand what it was that was confusing him.

"I'm sorry," he began again, "but I was under the impression that this man John was from Hartford."

"Hartford?" Now she looked confused. "Well, I suppose maybe he was. He never mentioned Hartford to me, but then I didn't know _everything_ about him. If you asked some folks who knew him, such as my father, they might tell you he hailed from under a rock."

"Your father didn't like him?"

"He despised him." Her expression changed a minute later as she realized she'd said something to compromise her father in Ichabod's eyes. "He didn't kill him though. He was here all night, dealing with Constable Green for most of that time."

"I know," Ichabod answered quietly. He wasn't ready to discount Augie Smith as a suspect just yet, especially since Smith had shamelessly and blatantly lied about knowing the man, but Lydia didn't need to know that. "It seems to me that there are a great many discrepancies…this man John was wearing clothing that would be worn by a gentleman when I found him, and yet in Mr. Geoffrey's sketch he was wearing a working man's clothes. I cannot account for the difference…"

He trailed off, interrupted by Lydia's laughter.

"John in a gentleman's clothes?" she bleated in between belly laughs. "That's a laugh. He must have stolen those clothes from someone. Maybe he stole them from Geoffrey. Now _he_ was dressed in some fine clothing whenever I saw him."

"He was?" Ichabod repeated, astonished.

"Well, except for the other night when he came in with you. It was a real surprise to see him looking like that."

Ichabod's interest was piqued and his instinct told him that he'd finally hit on the right track, that maybe, finally, this would be a breakthrough. So Mr. Geoffrey _was_ of much better means than he let on if what Lydia was saying was to be believed, which would explain how he could afford to stay at the Tontine. It would also explain why Mr. Horn and the other employees there were so adamant about protecting his privacy; they were paid to do so. But why was he trying to hide that he was a gentleman of means? He was in essence hiding his identity by doing so. Had he simply gone mad or was there another motive?

"Do you have any idea why Mr. Geoffrey started dressing in rags?" Ichabod asked.

She shook her head.

"Is there anything you can tell me about Mr. Geoffrey?"

Lydia shrugged. "He comes into the tavern from time to time. He was always dressed well and he was always pleasant enough. I was surprised to see him in the doorway with John. My guess is that Geoffrey wanted to avoid getting arrested when the brawl broke out so John offered to help him escape through the back door. Not for nothing, of course. John didn't do anything for nothing. I'm sure he had Geoffrey pegged as a target and here was a chance to trap him alone in this dark alley."

"Do you believe he was planning all along to rob him then?"

"Yes," she said, nodding for emphasis. "If I had to guess I would say that the clothes he was wearing when you found him were Geoffrey's clothes."

"He must have had a weapon then. It's the only explanation as to why Mr. Geoffrey would have been intimidated enough to remove his clothing voluntarily." Ichabod shook his head at the absurdity of it. He could imagine the man threatening Geoffrey with a gun or a knife and demanding that he hand over his money. Asking him to strip and hand his clothes over on top of that struck him as rather excessive and perverse. "What was this man John's surname? Judging from your description the constabulary has likely had experiences with him. I should like to investigate his record."

"Trent. I knew him as John Trent. He may have been calling himself another name when he was arrested."

"John Trent wasn't his real name?"

"I don't know for sure, but I doubt it."

"And yet you…" Ichabod trailed off and sighed. It was none of his business who she chose to consort with but he had to wonder why a young woman would choose to associate with such a scoundrel as Mr. Trent seemed to be; and that was a polite word for it. He felt sad for her.

"Was anyone else with Mr. Trent and Mr. Geoffrey when they came back here?" he continued.

"No." She turned and glanced over her shoulder anxiously, as if she expected her father to burst in at any moment. Ichabod began to speak quickly.

"Did you see what happened here in the alley after that?"

"No. I let them out this way and immediately shut the door behind them. That was the last time I saw either of them, until Geoffrey came in with you on Wednesday night."

"Lydia!" Augie Smith's voice rang out, clearly audible through the door behind her. He was on his way to the kitchen.

"I have to go. Good evening, Constable."

She ducked inside and the door shut before he had a chance to reply.

**oooOooo**

"I hope nothing has happened to him," Katrina said worriedly.

"As do I," Ichabod answered. Bursting with energy from a combination of anxiety and anticipation that he was finally making headway he was pacing the floor as he spoke. "His things were still in his room at the Tontine, including his sketch book. That is what…disturbed me right away. He is never without that sketch book. The fact that he left it behind...I'm at a loss to explain exactly what has happened, but it's odd."

"Do you think that maybe he was afraid? I think you're right that he gave you both sketches on purpose. He wanted you to know that he knew Geoffrey Latham…or at least that he'd seen him and drawn a picture of him. Maybe he had second thoughts after that, and it was too late to take it back."

"Maybe. I do know that Mr. Geoffrey is a very complicated man and something…drastic…has happened in his life, something that has, I fear, left him somewhat out of his mind. Lydia Smith…the barmaid at the tavern…confirmed your own suspicions about the so-called Hartford man; that he was a scoundrel, a miscreant, a thief at best and possibly worse. She suspected that this man…this John Trent, or whatever his real name was…intended to rob Mr. Geoffrey."

"And she allowed him to do so? She didn't try to warn him, to dissuade him from going into the alley alone with him?"

Ichabod sighed and shook his head. "Perhaps she was too afraid. This is a young woman who lives and works with a father who bullies and threatens her. The other night I saw him hit her in front of a tavern-full of people. She now has a nasty bruise on her face from it. Unfortunately it doesn't end there; she chooses associations with other men who behave the same way or worse."

He ceased pacing and moved back to the writing desk where she was standing, peering at his open ledger.

Katrina stared into his face searchingly. "I didn't know."

"I know," he murmured tenderly, reaching out and stroking her cheek. "I thank God that her experience is something that you have never had to know personally, Katrina."

He sat down at the writing desk. Katrina went and drew another chair up to the writing desk, sitting on the other side and facing him.

"What about Mr. Geoffrey? Yesterday he offered to go with you quietly. Do you think he changed his mind?"

"I don't know. But he is never without that sketch book. Even if he did flee to avoid arrest, I don't believe he would have left that book behind. Stephen's suggestion is very plausible. He felt ill when he woke up this morning, or possibly he was injured since I saw him last, and he went to see a doctor. Tomorrow when we go to the Tontine to find the man that spoke to him of Jonathan Drake I will also ask for the names of physicians. I'm certain that Mr. Horn has a list of doctors that he recommends to his patrons when necessary."

He absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the open page of his ledger, glancing over the notes he had made when he returned home. Katrina and Stephen had waited to eat supper with him, and while they worked in the kitchen preparing the food Ichabod sat at the table writing in his ledger, memorializing every word that Lydia had said and noting all of the discrepancies and conflicting information that was now becoming apparent.

The man's name was John Trent. Then again, maybe it wasn't. Who was he?

Then there was the discrepancy concerning his and Mr. Geoffrey's attire. Lydia had suggested that Trent stole Geoffrey's clothes and the only way Ichabod could imagine that happening was if Trent had a weapon. Yet Trent was the one who ended up dead on that night. Had someone else been there, someone who attacked Trent after he'd acquired Geoffrey's money and clothes? And why had Geoffrey, who no doubt owned more than one fine outfit, decided to wear rags all the time now?

At dinner Katrina and Stephen had been bursting with questions about what he had discovered that day. Ichabod couldn't help but smile at their enthusiasm and interest in his work, especially Stephen's. The young man, it turned out, had a good analytical mind and real potential to be an investigator. He'd offered several smart suggestions to think about. And he was also fearless; a quality that Ichabod admired and envied ever since he'd observed it during their adventures together in Sleepy Hollow. Yet Stephen looked up to Ichabod.

Now the three of them sat together in the sitting room, as they usually did in the evenings, and analyzed the information that Ichabod had gathered that day, comparing it to the knowledge he already had and sifting through the discrepancies and contradictions, and the new questions that had formed in Ichabod's mind.

"Why would he choose to wear rags?" Ichabod mused aloud. "Why hide his identity?"

"Must there be a reason?" Katrina challenged. "Some things defy logic. If he's not in his right mind, as you believe, he may choose to wear rags for no reason whatsoever."

"True. But I don't think that's the case this time."

"Maybe he's hiding from someone specifically," Stephen suggested. Instead of occupying the armchair in the corner tonight he was sprawled on the sofa, close to the writing desk and present in the discussion.

Ichabod turned and gazed at him thoughtfully. "And his attire is a disguise. That isn't such a far-fetched idea. Someone searching for Mr. Geoffrey would be looking for a well-dressed man and they would not look twice at someone who appears to be a homeless beggar. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Geoffrey keeps his face absolutely filthy. All that dirt and grime obscures his features. His own mother would be hard pressed to identify him. The question is who is he hiding from?"

He turned back to his ledger and began to write.

"Mr. Latham," he said aloud as he wrote the name. "Remember I said that he appeared to be avoiding Mr. Latham when we went to the cemetery to exhume the body? Maybe they do know each other but for some reason Mr. Geoffrey is afraid of Mr. Latham."

"Well, you didn't like Mr. Latham when you first met him. Mr. Geoffrey may have good reason for being afraid of him. His disguise is effective anyway," Katrina laughed. "You said that Mr. Latham didn't look twice at him that day."

"No, he looked disgusted when he laid eyes on him…" Ichabod stopped suddenly, his eyes widening, his lips parting.

"What is it?"

"The clothes!" he exclaimed, nearly knocking his chair out from underneath himself in his excitement.

"They're a disguise…"

"Yes, yes, possibly," he interrupted impatiently. "But…don't you see? If those clothes that were on the dead man belonged to Mr. Geoffrey it means that _he_ was the one who was carrying the Hartford newspaper with the obituary! _He_ is the one who came to find me, to bring me the news that my father passed away!"

He began to write furiously in his ledger, speaking as he took notes.

"By a stroke of odd…fortune, for lack of a better word…this man Trent stole his clothing, including the coat in which that newspaper was stowed. I discovered the body and the newspaper, and I assumed that he…Mr. Trent…was from Hartford and had come to find me."

"Then Mr. Geoffrey wasn't lying when he said he had never met Mr. Trent before that night."

"So it would seem. I…I hadn't even thought about the newspaper…" he trailed off and shook his head again. "I don't believe it. Why didn't Mr. Geoffrey tell me? Even if he didn't want to say anything before…he looked dismayed when I confronted him in the court room yesterday about the newspaper, as if he was trapped. I suggested that it was proof that he knew the man from before and that he had been lying to me all along, at least on that point. He could have explained to me then that the man had robbed him and taken his clothes. But he didn't. He only told me that I had come to the wrong conclusion and wouldn't say anything more about it, instead passively offering to come quietly. Why?"

"Mr. Trent is the one that ended up dead," Stephen spoke again. "Maybe, instead of a third person becoming involved, Mr. Geoffrey somehow got the upper hand and killed him."

"Yes." Ichabod gazed at him with pride. "And that possible scenario gives Mr. Geoffrey very good reason to be afraid, and to hide even."

"But he made such an effort to make your acquaintance," Katrina remarked.

"Well, as we discussed last night people can be amused in the oddest ways sometimes. Maybe he was baiting me."

"Or maybe he was simply ambivalent, Ichabod. Let's say he somehow got the upper hand, as Stephen suggests, and killed Mr. Trent. If Mr. Trent was threatening him with a gun or a knife, Mr. Geoffrey may have killed him, either unintentionally or because he had no choice but to defend himself. On the one hand he doesn't want to be caught and imprisoned. But on the other hand maybe he's feeling terrible guilt over it."

Ichabod considered this. "So perhaps he does and does not want to be caught. And that is where his madness lies."

"And Mr. Trent is a random entity in all of this."

He nodded. "Yes. If there is any conspiracy or scheme, and I'm beginning to think that is less likely, it appears to be limited to my father, Mr. Geoffrey, Mr. Latham and the elusive Jonathan Drake."


	11. A Man in Trouble

A/N: Very long chapter ahead, and lots of stuff going on. :)

* * *

_**10. A Man in Trouble**_

Late on Saturday morning Stephen Masbath accompanied Ichabod to City Hotel. Stephen had gone the previous afternoon to find out if Mr. Latham was still registered there, and he'd taken the initiative to leave word for him on behalf of Ichabod explaining that he was in need of assistance and was interested in speaking with him again; was he available the next morning or afternoon? Latham had never answered.

When they arrived and asked for him the man at the front desk told them that he had gone out.

"I can leave word for him again if you'd like."

"Yes." Ichabod left a message in writing, asking Geoffrey Latham to contact him as soon as possible, reiterating that he needed his assistance and left his home address as the place where Latham should contact him.

They left City Hotel and walked to the Tontine Coffee House.

"Do you think Mr. Latham is trying to avoid you?"

Ichabod laughed softly. "It's quite possible. For now I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. He may have already had a previously scheduled appointment today."

Stephen looked around the room carefully when they entered the main room of the Tontine and then leaned up to speak to Ichabod.

"I don't see the man I spoke to the other day," he said, sounding discouraged. "Maybe he's only here on Mondays."

"Keep looking. He might be upstairs or in another room and may appear shortly."

They kept walking, heading toward the back of the main hall, watching the servers moving back and forth among the tables and booths carrying trays of food and drink. There were several patrons sitting and drinking coffee but the place was not terribly crowded today. Geoffrey was not seated at any of the tables.

"Didn't you say that Mr. Latham wanted to meet with you here? Maybe he is here today."

"Good thinking, Stephen. You're learning fast."

Stephen couldn't help beaming at his compliment. They made another survey of the room and Ichabod searched for the large blonde man that he'd met a week or so before; it seemed longer than that. Latham was not to be found here either. The two of them headed back toward the entrance and approached the front desk, where Ichabod addressed the young man working there now.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?"

"I am Constable Ichabod Crane. Is Mr. Horn in today?"

The man shook his head. "He'll be in tonight. I am Mr. Franklin. Can I help you with something?"

"Would you please check if Mr. Geoffrey is in? If so, please tell him that Constable Crane is here to see him. He knows me."

Franklin excused himself, withdrew a set of keys from a drawer in the desk and went upstairs.

While they waited Ichabod took out his ledger, pen and ink and set it on the desk, preparing to write. Stephen stood quietly beside him, his eyes still combing the room, searching for the man that he'd spoken to.

Ichabod was not surprised when Franklin returned and told him that Mr. Geoffrey was not in.

"Have you seen him at all, sitting in this room maybe, going in or out?"

"No, I haven't. I've been working since eight o'clock this morning. Sometimes when it's busy I don't necessarily see everything that happens here, but it's been a fairly quiet morning."

"One more question. Who is the doctor that you call if someone falls ill here? I'm assuming there is at least one, since you let rooms upstairs and someone may become sick during the night."

"Dr. Booken. Charles Booken. He resides and practices on William Street."

Ichabod wrote down the name and the address that Booken gave him in his ledger.

"Has something happened to Mr. Geoffrey?" Franklin asked, concerned. "Is he ill?"

"I'm simply considering all possibilities. Do you know what time Mr. Horn will be arriving tonight?"

"There is a party beginning at seven o'clock tonight, so he will be here before then, probably at about six."

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Franklin," he said, closing his ledger and gathering his things. "Good day."

"Where to now?" Stephen asked as they made their way up Wall Street.

"Dr. Booken resides very close to our house. We can go home directly from there, so for convenience sake I'd prefer to visit him last. But it is a little too early to return to City Hotel to ask for Mr. Latham again anyway, and a little too early to revisit the Black Cat, which I'd like to do today. I shall have to come out again later in any case. I intend to return to the Tontine tonight when Mr. Horn is there."

"Maybe the man I spoke with will be there later."

"Yes," Ichabod replied, taking his meaning. "You shall have to come with me."

Stephen grinned.

"I'm a bit concerned leaving Katrina home alone tonight though," he fretted.

"She'll only be disappointed that she's not coming with us, Ichabod. Otherwise she'll be fine. I'm sure she'll keep the doors locked when she's alone and I can leave her my pistol."

"Mm. Well then, Dr. Booken it is."

They turned onto William Street and made their way to his office, which was across the street and a few doors down from their house. Ichabod led the way up the two front steps and pulled on the bell. The door opened after a few minutes and a short plump man in his fifties with very little hair on his head stood before them.

"Good morning, Dr. Booken."

"Almost good afternoon," he replied, his tone tinged with a subtle but unmistakable air of condescension. "How can I help you?"

"My name is Constable Ichabod Crane. I am looking for a man named Thomas Geoffrey, who I thought might be your patient. We were supposed to meet yesterday and he never appeared. I've been concerned that perhaps he fell ill or was injured…"

"Come in, Constable Crane. I suppose I shall have to take your word for it that you are indeed a constable, as you are not in uniform today."

"It is my day off. Still, I suppose I should have worn my uniform. I dislike it and prefer to take every opportunity not to wear it when I don't have to."

The doctor chuckled.

"Is Mr. Geoffrey here? Or has he been here in the past day or so?"

"No."

Dr. Booken led them down a hallway and into a sitting room.

"How did you come to search for him here?" he asked when they were seated around the low table in front of the fire.

"At the Tontine they told me that you are the physician they call on when someone there is sick or injured."

"Ah. Yes, this is true."

"Well, Mr. Geoffrey has been staying there. I thought that perhaps you met him or treated him…as I said, he seems to have disappeared and I'm concerned…"

"And you're leaving no stone unturned. Well, as a matter of fact, I did happen to tend to Mr. Geoffrey at the beginning of last month. He managed to make his way back to his room at the Tontine after…being injured…and someone came to fetch me."

"What kind of injury was it?"

The doctor studied him for some time. Ichabod sighed in exasperation.

"Do you remember the date?" he pressed.

"I don't remember it off-hand but I do have notes concerning my treatment of him. After the initial visit I still went to see him, to make sure he was healing properly and with no complications."

"Would you mind consulting your notes and checking that date for me?"

He stood up with a nod and left the room.

"He's an odd one, isn't he?" Stephen remarked softly.

"I suppose Mr. Geoffrey convinced the good doctor to withhold information in the same way he convinced Mr. Horn and the others at the Tontine to withhold information."

Dr. Booken returned several minutes later. "The seventh of March," he told him. "Or the sixth, depending on how you look at it."

"Excuse me?"

"It was long after midnight when I finally went to see him. So this occurred either late on the night of the sixth or the first hours of the morning on the seventh. I don't recall the exact time. I wrote the seventh down, but it was probably at least two o'clock in the morning on the seventh."

"I see." Ichabod withdrew his ledger and opened it, paging through it until he found the notes he'd made when he first came upon John Trent's body. Indeed he'd discovered it on the seventh of March, the morning following the brawl at Augie's place. He turned more pages until he found the notes he'd made after reading Constable Green's report of the riot. It had occurred on Thursday night, the sixth of March. Thomas Geoffrey had either been injured in the brawl or in the alley afterward, quite likely at the hands of John Trent. "He was at a tavern on the night of the sixth where a brawl broke out."

"Hmm, well he did have minor bruising on his face and arms. It's possible that those were caused when those parts of him made contact with someone's fist."

"But that is not what you were treating him for…"

"No. I treated him for a knife wound."

"He was stabbed?"

"Sliced." He made a gesture across his stomach. "He had a long gash right across here. Luckily it was a fairly superficial cut. His internal organs appeared to have been left intact and uninjured. I returned several times to change the bandage, to make certain there was no infection, to remove the stitches when the wound had healed. He was very fortunate."

"When did you last see him?"

"A week ago. Merely routine, to make sure he was healthy and that there weren't any unexpected…complications or secondary ailments that had arisen in the past month. Other than a sudden urge to dress like a beggar and a bent toward eccentricity he is fine these days."

"If he comes to see you again would you please contact me at the Broad Street Watch House? I should like to speak with him as soon as possible."

"I will. But be aware, Constable Crane, that if he is injured or ill when he comes to me my first duty is to heal him. I won't turn him over to you before that."

Ichabod's eyes narrowed. "And why would you be required to 'turn him over' to me, Dr. Booken? I merely said that I wished to speak with him."

Dr. Booken laughed. "It is only an expression, Constable. But if you prefer, I will treat him and make sure he is well enough before he speaks with you."

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Booken. Good afternoon." Ichabod glanced at the grandfather clock in the room. "It is good afternoon now."

"Touché, Constable," the doctor chuckled mirthfully. "Good afternoon."

"_He's_ pompous," Stephen blurted out passionately as they crossed the street and walked to their own doorstep.

"Yes, he is, Stephen," he laughed. He admired Stephen's candor and honesty. "Pompous and patronizing."

Ichabod sighed.

"But then there are many who have the same perception of me."

Stephen looked up at him curiously. "I don't find you to be patronizing."

"Only pompous?" he asked amused, raising one eyebrow at Stephen as he gazed at him.

"You like to be right."

"Well," Ichabod laughed, "we all like to be right."

"Do you suppose he really did slip when he used the phrase 'turn him over to you'?"

"You're very perceptive. Yes, that is exactly what I thought. It's very possible that Dr. Booken already has it in his mind that Mr. Geoffrey is guilty of something and that I am on his trail. He recovered himself remarkably well, though."

"I wonder how he could have managed to kill Trent though. He would have had to somehow get his knife away from him, and after he was injured."

Ichabod shook his head. "Remember, Trent wasn't killed with a knife. In fact there were no stab wounds anywhere on his body, not even minor ones. He died from a blow to his head, a blow that was delivered with a blunt object. God knows where that object came from. It must have been something lying around the alley on the ground. Or maybe a third person inside Augie's tavern heard sounds in the alley and came out wielding it."

They reached home and entered the house, where Katrina was waiting for them with lunch prepared.

**oooOooo**

Ichabod almost laughed upon glimpsing the expression on Augie Smith's face when he looked up and saw him enter the tavern early that evening. He looked both apprehensive and annoyed. Stephen followed him in and Ichabod gestured for him to hold back until he signaled otherwise.

"What now, Constable?" Smith demanded. His breath reeked of liquor already. "Haven't I answered enough of your questions?"

"If you prefer I can drag you down to the Watch House."

"You're not in uniform," he retorted defiantly.

"That is a technicality that can be resolved. Constable Green is on this beat today and I can call him in if you insist on being apprehended by someone in uniform. Yesterday and this morning I discovered some new facts in this case and I should like to discuss them with you. These facts put your answers to my questions in a new light and I am compelled to investigate them further. You have not been truthful with me."

Smith's face reddened and he became obviously livid.

The door behind the bar was open halfway and Ichabod glimpsed Lydia's dark head. She peered out into the tavern, her eyes huge with surprise and fear. The same bruise was on her cheek but he was relieved to see that there weren't any new bruises; or at least they weren't on her face. Ichabod had been concerned for her well-being, worried that perhaps her father had caught her speaking with him in the alley and punished her with violence.

Augie glanced in her direction and she backed up, letting the door close behind her as she disappeared.

"Lydia," he muttered and followed up with several expletives that Ichabod was happy he couldn't hear clearly.

"I'm perfectly content to discuss everything here in the comfort of your tavern unless you insist..."

"This way, Constable," he replied, resigned.

Ichabod followed him to a table in the back of the room. Stephen bounded after them.

"So, you came back here to call me a liar?" he asked when they were seated.

"You were not truthful with me and you withheld information. Please don't attempt to deny it. Your daughter told me that she escorted both Mr. Geoffrey and John Trent, the victim, out through the back door from the kitchen on the night of the brawl. I think you knew that, despite the fact that you were busy speaking with Constable Green."

Augie Smith opened his mouth to protest but Ichabod held up his hand to silence him again.

"But whether you saw them leave or not you still lied to me about John Trent. When I questioned you both times you intimated that you didn't know him, other than having seen his face when he visited the tavern. You claimed that you didn't even know his name. But in reality you knew him quite well. And you disliked him."

Realization dawned in his face and Smith began to swear profusely. "Lydia. That stupid whore told you…"

Despite how shabbily he knew Augie Smith treated his daughter Ichabod was still shocked that he could speak of her in this manner. "She is your daughter!" he protested.

"And she's a whore."

He glowered at him defiantly when Ichabod said nothing.

"What are you looking at me like that for? You don't know me and you don't know her. Who are you to judge?"

Ichabod sighed and resumed his initial line of questioning. "You knew that she allowed them to leave through the back and yet you withheld that information from me. And you tried to intimidate your daughter and prevent her from speaking to me. I should arrest you for obstructing justice."

"I'm obstructing nothing, Constable. I didn't see what happened to John Trent, or whatever his name was. I came out into the alley much later and found him."

"But you knew that Mr. Geoffrey left with him, that he may have been the last person to see him alive, that perhaps he was the one that killed him. And you never came forward about it," he retorted sharply. "You left his body there in the alley without even contacting an authority!"

"There was nothing to be done about it. He was already dead and I figured one of you constables would discover him on patrol sooner or later. God knows Constable Green hovers around here enough. Chances were _he_ would have at least stumbled across the body if nobody else did first."

Ichabod couldn't believe Smith's attitude.

"Mr. Smith, even if a crime had not been committed, do you understand that it was a health risk to leave a dead body in an alley? But this was murder, and there is a guilty man out there somewhere who is responsible, quite likely Thomas Geoffrey. You give me good reason to suspect that you might be protecting him now. Are you? He's not here but perhaps you know where he is."

He paused and studied Augie Smith closely when he received no answer.

"Well?"

"I have no idea where he is."

"Perhaps you are the one who killed John Trent."

"Well, the man was a low-life and I certainly wouldn't have hesitated to kill him had the opportunity presented itself. But fortunately, or unfortunately, someone else had the pleasure of doing it before I had the chance."

"It would seem you did not merely dislike him. You abhorred him."

"Of course I abhorred him. He was a despicable cold-blooded man. And that little whore was consorting with him on purpose to make me angry. Stupid. She could have gotten herself killed."

Ichabod winced as Augie Smith once more referred to his daughter in that derogatory manner.

"Well, it seems to have worked," he remarked, feeling a small twinge of pleasure when he saw that he was irritating Smith. "You're very angry. And it certainly gives you a motive to kill him."

"Yes," Smith sighed impatiently, "but I've already told you that someone else beat me to it."

"Thomas Geoffrey?"

"I have no idea."

"You referred to the dead man as 'John Trent, or whatever his name was'. Do you have reason to believe that John Trent was not really the man's name?"

"A lot of people lie about their names, Constable. Surely you've met many men who have. Sometimes it's to their advantage. It was certainly to John Trent's advantage."

"Of course it was, and Lydia thought the same thing, that it wasn't necessarily his real name. He was a thief who..."

"A thief?" he guffawed. "He was more than a thief."

"Yes, well, be that as it may I was under the impression that Trent intended to rob Mr. Geoffrey all along and that he lured him into the alley…"

Augie Smith snorted and leaned forward. "Is that what Lydia told you? My daughter thinks she's clever but as usual she had it all wrong. This is why I need to keep an eye on her and steer her right."

"What do you mean?"

But Smith merely leaned back in his chair and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Ichabod gazed at him in thoughtful silence, waiting for him to say more. "I suppose you made it your business to find out all you could about John Trent."

Smith still didn't answer.

"It's understandable. You wanted to know as much as possible to protect your daughter."

"Constable, your so-called victim wasn't an upstanding citizen, and he was far worse than you imagine," he began quietly after some time, glancing around the room and then leaning in to speak to Ichabod confidentially. "John Trent was an assassin for hire."

"What?" Ichabod stared at him in incredulous silence for several minutes. "Mr. Smith, I don't know how you could possibly know that for certain. Did Mr. Trent advertise the fact that he was a hired killer so that his victims would recognize him and have fair warning?"

"It was known...among certain people, and I was able to find out about it. I'll leave it at that."

"I see. And so you became aware of this fact about Mr. Trent and never brought it to the attention of the authorities?"

"In the first place I never saw him in the act. I only know what I heard from people who kept their knowledge closely guarded. In the second place no one was going to cross a man like Trent, and that includes me. I was not interested in becoming his next victim simply because of what I happened to know. Why do you even care anyway? John Trent was paid to kill men who hadn't done a thing to him, men that he didn't even know or care a whit about, and he did it willingly. He had no reason other than money and gave it no other thought beyond that. Is the world really worse off without him in it?"

Ichabod fixed him with a steely stare and spoke sharply. "And so you are arguing that he deserved to die in the same way that he lived?" he challenged him in a cold tone. "That his life was worth nothing and that the murderer who took it from him should get away with it? The Court and the laws exist for a reason, Mr. Smith. It is not for any one man to take it into his own hands."

Augie Smith said nothing.

"But, if what you say about Mr. Trent is true then there is a very good chance that Mr. Geoffrey killed him in self-defense."

"Well, as I said, I didn't see him get killed. Maybe he did intend to murder Geoffrey. Or maybe they became friends over a drink and simply decided to escape together at the first sign of trouble. Unless you can find someone who did see it happen…well then, as far as I'm concerned the only thing that Geoffrey is guilty of is leaving the tavern with John Trent and being the last man seen with him."

"Yes," Ichabod sighed. "It does seem circumstantial at best. Except that Mr. Geoffrey was also wounded. He was sliced across his stomach. Did you know that?"

For a minute Augie Smith stared in silence at his hands, which were pressed palms down on the table.

"I had no idea," he answered finally.

Ichabod studied him closely.

"You don't believe me."

"Forgive me if I offend you, Mr. Smith, but you have not given me good reason to have confidence in the veracity of your answers."

"Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

He shook his head. "That will be all for now. Thank you for your time."

**oooOooo**

The Tontine Coffee House was packed when they returned at seven o'clock that evening. The veranda on the second floor was overflowing with men and women in elegant suits and gowns and people spilled out of the front entrance on the first floor onto the portico. Ichabod and Stephen made their way up the front steps and pushed through the crowd to get to the door. The ball that Mr. Franklin had mentioned was already in progress.

"There he is." Stephen pointed excitedly to a man who stood behind the main desk when they had finally made their way inside. "That's the man I spoke to."

Mr. Horn was standing beside him. They approached the desk and Ichabod greeted Mr. Horn.

"Good evening, Constable. Mr. Franklin told me that you were in earlier today."

Ichabod turned to the other man. "Good evening. May I have your name, sir?"

"It's Burke. Richard Burke."

"Mr. Burke."

"I see that you brought your little assistant with you," Horn remarked.

"My companion spoke with you on Monday about Jonathan Drake, Mr. Burke," Ichabod began, ignoring Horn's comment. "You told him that he tried to take a room here on the twenty-third of March."

"Yes. I don't remember the exact date but the twenty-third sounds about right. We were full that night."

Ichabod's eyes shifted to Horn, who had raised his hands and was grimacing at Burke in vain. Burke was looking straight ahead at Ichabod. Horn ceased his movements, trying to make it appear as if he were merely flexing his hands rather than holding them up in an attempt to stop Mr. Burke from telling him about Jonathan Drake.

"Did you refer him to another inn?"

"I referred him to City Hotel."

"City Hotel?" Ichabod repeated, blinking. It was too much of yet another coincidence.

"That's right."

Stephen tugged on his arm and Ichabod turned to him.

"City Hotel is one of the places I went to on Monday when I was looking for the place where Jonathan Drake might have registered. There was no Jonathan Drake registered there."

"He may have chosen to go somewhere else." He turned to Horn. "What do you have to say, Mr. Horn?"

"I'm at a loss, Constable Crane. I never saw Mr. Drake this time and had no idea that he had come here."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

Richard Burke's eyes darted back and forth between his boss and Ichabod. They came to rest on Ichabod then and he spoke up. "Sir, Mr. Horn would have already been gone for the evening. It was fairly late at night when Mr. Drake arrived, and he hadn't written ahead as he usually does. I think he had to travel here to the city unexpectedly and didn't have time to contact us."

"You work at night?"

"Yes, I work from midnight to eight o'clock in the morning usually. Sometimes I'm in earlier, on nights such as tonight when it is busy and there is a party. This past Monday when the young man was in I was covering for someone for a few hours in the afternoon. But I'm not here at that time normally."

"I see."

"I'm here in the evenings to oversee things, Constable," Horn added, "but I leave early unless there is an event happening, such as the one tonight. And I do stay later on the weekends."

Ichabod took out his ledger and withdrew the sketch that Thomas Geoffrey had given to him.

"Mr. Geoffrey drew a sketch of the man whose murder I'm investigating." He handed it to Burke. "In the drawing he is wearing a laborer's clothes. But when I discovered him he was dressed in very fine clothes, as if he were a gentleman or a businessman. He may have patronized the Tontine. Do you recognize him?"

"Yes, that's Jonathan Drake. But he is drawn wearing his usual attire."

"What?" Ichabod exclaimed shocked.

Burke looked up.

"Mr. Burke, someone who knew Jonathan Drake came to identify the body of the man. He said that it wasn't him. I can't believe that he'd lie about such a thing."

"You think that Jonathan Drake is dead?"

"As far as I…" Ichabod trailed off and shook his head. "You said that this is his usual attire?"

"Of course it is. He is a well-established and well-to-do merchant." Burke held up the paper and turned it, and Ichabod saw that he'd been looking not at the picture of John Trent but at that of Geoffrey Latham. "He's dressed as he always is."

"Wait a minute," he began, the suspicion beginning to dawn on him. "There are two sketches, one on either side. Which one is Jonathan Drake?"

Richard Burke tapped the picture of Geoffrey Latham.

"Are you certain that is Jonathan Drake?"

He looked confused. "Yes, of course."

Realizing that there was a sketch on the reverse side, Burke lowered the paper and looked at the drawing of John Trent closely. "This man I don't know."

Burke glanced surreptitiously at Horn then handed the paper back to Ichabod. Ichabod stared at the sketch of Geoffrey Latham for a moment, dumbfounded. Then he held out the paper to Horn.

"Do you recognize one or both of these men?"

Horn glanced at one side and nodded, then turned the paper over. "This man in workman's clothes I don't know. I've never seen him in here. But the other man is Jonathan Drake, as Mr. Burke says."

"The first man, the one in workman's clothes, is the man I discovered dead in an alley. His name is John Trent. But I met this other man," Ichabod told them in a thin voice, taking the paper back from Horn. "The one you are both calling Jonathan Drake. He introduced himself to me as Geoffrey Latham."

Ichabod watched as the two men exchanged a bewildered glance between them. Then Horn turned to him and spoke.

"Constable Crane, Mr. Burke has told you all that he knows. I'm the one that you wish to speak with. May Burke be dismissed?"

Ichabod stared at him quizzically for a minute.

"I'm the one who has some of the information you're seeking."

"I see. Of course. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Burke."

Richard Burke nodded and glanced nervously at Horn. Mr. Horn gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, grabbed the set of keys they'd seen Franklin take earlier and gestured for Ichabod to follow him. They left Burke working at the desk and walked up the stairs to the second floor. There was a large ballroom at the front of the building and to their right, which was filled with a large crowd of men and women, dancing, chatting, socializing. Horn led them in the other direction, down the hall to a room at the back, which Ichabod recognized to be the same room belonging to Mr. Geoffrey. Mr. Horn unlocked the door, opened it and gestured for them to enter.

"We're meeting in Mr. Geoffrey's room?" Ichabod asked.

"We can speak privately in here."

He followed them in, closed the door behind him and motioned for them to sit down in the plush chairs around the coffee table. He took the third chair.

"First of all, I didn't know that Jonathan Drake was here. At least not right away. Burke was telling the truth. I was not here when he attempted to take a room this last time."

"Alright," Ichabod replied with a nod. "But at some point later you discovered that he was in New York City?"

"You have to understand, Constable Crane, our customers sometimes request a certain amount of privacy. Part of our way of serving them is to be discreet and ensure that they keep that privacy. It was not my desire to deceive you…"

"Please come to the point, Mr. Horn," Ichabod said impatiently, leaning forward on the edge of his chair.

"Geoffrey is in trouble, Constable. But I'm sure you already know that. Whether his trouble is related in any way to the case you're investigating I don't know, but he's been in trouble for some time now. Yesterday after you came here looking for him I left word for everyone, on all shifts, to let me know when he returned. They had instructions to call for me at home if I wasn't here. I wanted to be the one to pass on your message to him. But he never came back. He has not been here since Thursday morning. You can see that the divan has not been slept on and his things are exactly as you saw them. Nothing has been moved."

"Do you believe that something may have happened to him?" Ichabod asked.

"I don't know. Geoffrey was injured at the beginning of March. There is a doctor…"

"Yes. I went to see Dr. Booken today to ask after him and he told me he treated him then. Mr. Franklin gave me his name this morning. If Mr. Geoffrey did fall ill or was injured he did not go to see Dr. Booken this time. I also questioned the man at the Black Cat today, which is where the incident occurred last month. He told me he was not aware that Mr. Geoffrey had been injured in any way despite the fact that it no doubt happened in back of his tavern. However, Mr. Geoffrey was not merely 'injured' as you put it. He was attacked with a knife and his attacker was able to take a good slice out of him before...well, I'm not certain what happened next. Somehow Mr. Geoffrey survived and his attacker wound up dead in that alley. I don't know for certain exactly what happened."

"But you think Mr. Geoffrey killed him?"

"Possibly. Or perhaps there was a third person there who did it."

"It would have been self-defense if he had."

"I'm well aware of that, Mr. Horn. Someone here helped Mr. Geoffrey the night he was injured and fetched Dr. Booken to tend to him. Correct?"

"Yes."

"I'm curious as to how Mr. Geoffrey managed to make his way back here. Although his wound wasn't as severe as it could have been, he still..."

"He had help, Constable. Two men brought him here. Carl was working that night; he sent for the doctor and hurried to my home to tell me what was happening. It was the middle of the night but still…the situation could have been volatile if people heard that a man who'd been stabbed was lying in a room here so we had to handle everything as discreetly as possible."

"Who were the two men that helped Mr. Geoffrey here?"

"I don't know. They were gone by the time I returned with Carl, but he may remember them. He'll be working again on Sunday evening. Tomorrow, that is."

"I see. Based on what I have found during this investigation I believe that the other man in the sketch, John Trent, is no doubt the one who sliced at Mr. Geoffrey with a knife."

"Geoffrey never told us the name of his attacker. Perhaps he didn't know it. But the man who attacked Geoffrey with the knife…it wasn't a robbery or anything like that. According to Geoffrey his intention was to kill him. The man was a hired assassin."

Ichabod's eyes widened. "Yes, the owner of the Black Cat told me the same thing."

"After this happened he asked us to protect him. He paid a lot of money."

"He bribed you."

"He asked for our help and we gave it to him."

"What did Mr. Geoffrey do, or what was he doing, that would have given someone reason to hire an assassin against him?"

"He didn't discuss the details and we didn't ask. Geoffrey escaped his fate but he was worried, with good reason, that when the man who hired this John Trent realized he'd failed he'd hire another man to try again. Anyone who came looking for him could have been an enemy, even those that he thought were friends. Our instructions were to tell them that he wasn't here, no matter who they were, take their information and then report back who it was that had come and asked for him. He started to dress in rags and covered his face in ash and grime to make himself unrecognizable. And up until now he has successfully hidden in plain sight."

"I came and asked for him, too. You didn't send me away."

"He told the desk that he was expecting a Constable Crane. We knew it was alright for him to see you."

"Mr. Geoffrey said he knows Mr. Drake, and he's drawn a sketch of him here. Since they both frequent the Tontine perhaps you know something of their relationship."

"They're business partners. And they've made investments together."

"That's extremely vague."

Horn shrugged. "I don't know the details that you're interested in."

Ichabod sighed. "What times does Carl arrive tomorrow? Does he start at midnight, the same as Mr. Burke?"

"No, he'll be here at eight o'clock."

"Then I shall return here at that time." Ichabod stood up, walked over to the writing desk and lingered for several minutes, staring down at Geoffrey's ledger filled with sketches. "I should have realized that something was wrong when I saw that he left his sketch book. He never went anywhere without it."

He took a seat at the writing desk now and opened up his own ledger to record everything he'd learned that evening.

"Do you have more questions for me, Constable?" Horn asked anxiously. "It is a busy night..."

"I won't be much longer, Mr. Horn," Ichabod cut him off and turned to face him while he asked more questions so he could observe his reactions. "Can you think of anyone that Mr. Geoffrey may have gone to for help in the last day or so? Perhaps he wished to hide and that person is helping him to do so."

"I'm sorry, I have no idea."

"Let me ask you...for some reason Jonathan Drake is pretending to be someone named Geoffrey Latham..."

"It appears so, yes. I don't know the reason."

"My question is, who is Geoffrey Latham then? Is there someone by that name who frequents this establishment? Do you know anyone by that name?"

There was no doubt in Ichabod's mind that Horn was jarred by this particular question. "I'm not certain. The name sounds familiar, but perhaps it is a common name."

"Well, this Geoffrey Latham likely came from Hartford."

Horn shook his head. Ichabod suppressed an exasperated sigh.

"One more question. Do you happen to know a man named Lefty?"

"Lefty?"

"Yes. The first time Mr. Geoffrey came to work for me Lefty accompanied him. Both of them worked. It occurs to me that perhaps he is one of the men who helped to bring him here the night he was attacked."

"I don't know anyone named Lefty, nor have I ever heard Geoffrey mention him."

Ichabod put away his ledger, pen and ink and stood up. His eye fell on Geoffrey's ledger of sketches once more and he stared at it for several minutes, deep in thought. He picked it up gingerly and began to flip through the pages, examining the sketches once again. An idea came to him then, and he moved back toward the coffee table and handed the sketch book to Mr. Horn.

"Would you please look through all of these sketches and tell me if you recognize anyone else besides Jonathan Drake in the drawings?"

"Certainly," Mr. Horn answered, opening the ledger with slightly trembling fingers and beginning to peruse the drawings.

Ichabod took a seat once more in the empty chair at the coffee table and watched Mr. Horn's face as he looked at the sketches.

"There is the same picture of Mr. Drake that you showed us." He flipped the page. "And the other man on the reverse."

"Yes, Mr. Geoffrey very kindly copied an identical sketch of both for me to use."

"Surely if he was guilty of something, Constable, he would not have aided you in that way."

"Perhaps. People are sometimes compelled by odd motivations." He nodded toward the book. "Have you seen anyone else you recognize?"

"Not yet." Horn continued turning the pages. "Ah, here you are, Constable. And I recognize Assistant Attorney General Colden. Oh, and there is James Watkins. A lot of these men I recognize, they frequently come in here."

"Of course. And you know all their names?"

"Yes. But there is no one here that I can identify as Geoffrey Latham. And I don't see Jonathan Drake in any other of these sketches." He continued looking through the book page by page. "I see this is all drawn in the court room. Wait a moment, is this the Eldridge trial that Geoffrey is sketching?"

"Indeed it is."

"This is amazing!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. Mr. Geoffrey is very talented."

"Very."

"He has decided to chronicle the entire Eldridge trial. That is another reason why I was concerned when he didn't appear yesterday. He seemed set on capturing each and every day of the proceedings. It didn't make sense that he would miss yesterday unless there was a very good reason for it. Perhaps the man who hired John Trent to kill him learned of his failure and hired someone else to try."

"That...has occurred to me, too, Constable Crane. It would mean his life may be in peril as we speak."

Ichabod nodded and stood up. "I shall do my best to find him before that happens. And...if you are holding anything back, Mr. Horn, I urge you not to. You must tell me what you know so I can help him if he needs it."

Mr. Horn nodded but didn't say anything. Ichabod sighed softly in frustration.

"Please contact me immediately if you hear anything concerning him," Ichabod added.

"I will."

They left Horn in the room and returned to the first floor, pushing their way through mobs of people until they finally made it back out to the street.

"So, the man who told you he is Geoffrey Latham is really Jonathan Drake?" Stephen asked wide-eyed as they made their way up Wall Street.

"It would appear so, though I cannot for the life of me fathom why he is pretending to be someone else. He not only lied to me as a perspective client but as a member of the constabulary. The truly puzzling...and very interesting thing is his certainty upon speaking with me that the body that we were exhuming for identification would be Jonathan Drake. Obviously he knew it wasn't going to be Jonathan Drake, since _he_ is Jonathan Drake."

"But he did know who it was, didn't he? When he saw the body, I mean."

"Yes. He did know the man in the grave, I'm certain of that now. _But the man in the grave was not who he thought it would be._ That is why he looked so horrified. Before he even viewed the body he was expecting to see somebody different when I opened that sack."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he expected to see the real Geoffrey Latham, whoever that is."

"Why would he want to change places with a dead man? Or a man he thought was dead?"

"That is a very good question, Stephen."

"I wonder what he would have done if you had agreed to take whatever was offered in your father's will."

"My guess is he would have signed all of those papers under his false name and later, if the fraudulent identity of the signing attorney became discovered, those papers would have been null and void."

"He must have known what a risk that was. When you found out..."

"I suspect that by the time the fraud was discovered Mr. Drake would have been long gone, out of everyone's reach." Ichabod sighed. "But that wasn't going to happen and he knew it. One thing I'm certain he wasn't lying about was that he knew my father, and attended his church in Hartford. And he was counting on the fact that I would have no interest whatsoever in my father's will."

His face and body flushed with anger as he thought of it. How easily these men from the reverend's church had played on his sentiments about his father, how vulnerable and foolish he was to allow it. He cursed under his breath.

"Where are we going now?" Stephen asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"To City Hotel."

Stephen looked taken aback by his suddenly curt tone. Ichabod took a deep breath and allowed his expression to soften when he realized that he had snapped at the boy. He reached down and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"If we're lucky Mr. Drake has finally returned to his room."

They turned onto Broadway and City Hotel came into view. Ichabod somehow knew it was futile but they stopped at the hotel anyway and asked at the front desk for Geoffrey Latham.

"I've been trying to reach him for quite some time," Ichabod explained. "It is quite urgent that I speak with him. Has he returned yet?"

The clerk working at the desk called for the manager, who sent someone up to Mr. Latham's room to knock on his door after Ichabod explained who he was and why he needed to speak with Mr. Latham so urgently.

A few minutes later, while they waited, a lanky young man entered the hotel, strode up to the front desk and handed the manager a folded message. The messenger turned to go, but the manager called him back.

"Wait. I may be required to send a reply."

"But..." the youth began to protest but the manager cut him off with a stern look and reiterated that he wanted him to wait.

The manager broke the seal and opened the thick stack of paper. A key slipped out of the pages and dropped onto the desk with a dull thud. He picked it up and stared, puzzled, at it. Then he began to read the message on the pages that he held in his other hand, his expression changing to one of slight embarrassment and disbelief.

"You will want to read this," he said finally, somewhat awkwardly, and handed Ichabod the message.

Ichabod read it, his anger beginning to simmer as he did. It was addressed to the managers of City Hotel and signed Geoffrey Latham. Latham explained that he'd had to return to Hartford unexpectedly several days earlier and had never checked out; he was returning his key forthwith. His bill was paid through that Sunday morning and no additional money was owed. There was no return address provided.

Without a word Ichabod handed the pages back to the manager. He turned to the messenger and studied him closely.

"I am Constable Ichabod Crane, and I'm investigating a murder," he told him.

The young man blinked nervously. "I'm just delivering a message, sir..."

"You're not in trouble. I simply want to ask you some questions. Where did you come from?"

"From Pelham, sir."

"Pelham?"

"Yes, sir. From my father's tavern there."

"The man who wrote this message, did you see him?"

"No, sir. My father said that he's been holding this message for a man who was there a few days before. He had instructions from the man to deliver it here sometime today and he sent me with it."

"And you're just delivering it now?"

"Yes, sir." He looked sheepish. "I'm afraid I was...detained."

Ichabod sighed. "I see. What is the name of your father's tavern?"

"It's called the Watering Hole."

"Very well. I have no more questions for you."

"May I go then?" he asked the manager.

"Yes. Obviously I have no reply to send."

Looking relieved the young man hurried out of the hotel. Moments later the man who had gone upstairs returned and explained that Mr. Latham wasn't there.

"Thank you, William. It appears that Mr. Latham has already checked out. Here is the key to the room. I assume that his things are gone, but please open up the room and make sure." The man William turned and went off on his errand and the manager faced Ichabod. "My apologies, Constable. I believed that he was still registered here. We all did."

"It isn't your fault. Unfortunately Mr. Latham didn't leave an address in his message to which you can forward his things on. I expect that he took everything with him and if he did leave anything behind it is now the property of the hotel with his blessing. Did you take his address when he registered?"

"I'll look in the register book, but I doubt it. It wasn't necessary in his case. He paid in advance through this Sunday, which is when he originally intended to check out."

"I see." Ichabod waited while the manager reviewed the book, confirming that his address had not been obtained at the time he checked in. Moments later William returned and informed them that all of Mr. Latham's belongings were gone.

"Thank you for your assistance," Ichabod said politely. "Good night."

Stephen looked up at him questioningly when they stepped out onto the street again. He looked exhausted after his first full day of investigating. Ichabod placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"So Mr. Latham isn't registered here anymore? I mean Mr. Drake? Even though they said he was?"

"No, he left without formally checking out. That letter was his manner of doing so." Ichabod explained how Drake had left for Hartford but made it appear as if he was still registered at City Hotel. "I should have kept a watch over him. I let him slip away."

"But how could you have watched him? You had to be in Court every day."

He gazed at the boy warmly. "Thank you for your help today, Stephen."

"I hardly did anything."

"You made some good suggestions last night and today, and you helped me to gain information that I otherwise may have not obtained."

His eyes shone brightly and he smiled at Ichabod with pride.

"Where to now, then?"

"It's late and it's been a long day. We're both exhausted. Let's go home and get some rest."


	12. A Plausible Scenario

_**11. A Plausible Scenario**_

As exhausted as he was Ichabod couldn't lie still long enough to fall asleep, so he quietly slipped out of bed, taking care to not wake Katrina, and went up to his laboratory where he could work through the night without disturbing anyone. He sat at his desk pensively for some time, his mind flooded with images of the events of that day and with fragments of the conversations he'd had, blaming himself for allowing both Jonathan Drake and Thomas Geoffrey to so suddenly and completely elude him.

He thought back, replaying in his head the meetings he had with Drake while he still believed him to be Geoffrey Latham, trying to pinpoint what clues there might have been that would have made it obvious that he wasn't who he claimed to be. What had he missed? Had the sight of his father's obituary, the stirred up memories, the shadow of a doubt that his father may have been even more a villain and involved in unscrupulous activities with these mysterious men that had descended on New York City from Hartford, had it all perturbed and discombobulated him so thoroughly that he failed to see what was right in front of his nose? Until now he was certain that he had remained as objective as possible, at least he'd had every intention of doing so; and yet he realized finally how easily his sentiments and personal history had been played on and manipulated.

His ledger lay open on the desk before him and for a long while he stared half-mindedly at the page with the notes he'd written that day, seeing the words without registering their meaning. Finally he roused himself from his somber reverie and began to read through these notes attentively, focusing at first on Drake's departure from City Hotel and the short interview he'd conducted with the young man who delivered his message. If what the messenger said was true Drake left City Hotel several days before and made his way about an hour or so north to Pelham, stopping at the tavern there. He'd left the message for the hotel proprietors with the youth's father, with instructions that it was not to be delivered until today. Ichabod picked up his pen, turned to a blank page and began to write two theories that occurred to him.

The obvious scenario was that Drake went directly to Hartford after leaving the tavern in Pelham, as he said in his letter to the hotel proprietors. He gave the message to the tavern keeper and arranged for delivery of it to be delayed so that it arrived long after he was gone, even after he had already reached Hartford. Yet given the fact that Drake had already deceived Ichabod and several others, convincing them that he was a different man with another name, it wasn't far-fetched to assume that perhaps this was another deception, a tactic of misdirection. Perhaps he wanted to give the impression that he'd gone to Hartford but in reality had merely stopped at the tavern in Pelham, left the message and instructions as to its delivery, then turned around and came straight back to the city. Maybe he'd even convinced the tavern keeper and his son to lie for him.

Ichabod opened a drawer and withdrew several sheets of paper intending to write a message of his own to the keeper of the Watering Hole Tavern in Pelham. As he pondered what to write it occurred to him that the tavern keeper quite possibly would not answer him truthfully and completely, especially if Mr. Drake had paid handsomely for his silence and protection. It would be better to conduct the interview in person, Ichabod decided, which would allow him to observe the man's expressions and manner, and to intuit details that could never be discerned from reading a letter.

Setting aside the sheets of paper he returned to his ledger, reviewing more of his notes from that day, reading carefully and adding commentary and theories in the margins as ideas occurred to him. There was a good deal of circumstantial evidence pointing to Thomas Geoffrey's guilt in the murder of John Trent, but there were also mitigating circumstances, or so it would seem based on what he'd heard from Augie Smith and Mr. Horn if they were to be trusted, and he wanted to consider all possibilities. It was less likely but still conceivable that a third party entered the alley and came to his aid, killing John Trent, perhaps someone who came out of Augie's tavern. Augie Smith himself might have been the one to deliver the fatal blow, or perhaps even his daughter Lydia.

The latter was less likely; in fact, Ichabod suddenly recalled again that Thomas Geoffrey had remarked on her harboring anger toward him when they approached her on Wednesday evening. Why she was angry at him Ichabod didn't know; but one possible answer that struck him, in light of the fact that Lydia had been 'consorting' with John Trent as her father phrased it, was that she was angry at Geoffrey because he killed her lover.

He turned his thoughts to Thomas Geoffrey the man now. Dr. Booken commented about his sudden urge to dress in rags and his tendency toward eccentricity of late. Ichabod considered the facts that he knew of him and made a list on a fresh page in his ledger. First, Geoffrey was an attorney and someone who engaged in transactions at the Tontine, he was no doubt a man of high reputation at that place as well as a man of means financially. His choosing to dress as he did now could simply be attributed to a bizarre nature, but more likely it was a means of hiding his identity; even Mr. Horn at the Tontine had suggested this – _up until now he'd been successful at hiding in plain sight_, his exact words. Geoffrey was also an excellent sketch artist, with a sensitive and perceptive view of his subjects. It was an admirable task that he'd set out for himself, to document the entire Eldridge trial in pictures; but Ichabod had to wonder at his motives. He had intentionally managed to impart to Ichabod's sight several revealing drawings that were relevant to the case; but Ichabod couldn't yet guess his reasons for it. Why had he decided to divert himself with such a project anyway if he was guilty of any sort of crime? Wouldn't he have more important things to think about? And why would he want to be anywhere near the Court or any constable, yet alone an entire group of them in one room if he was guilty of killing a man? Did he, as Ichabod had originally imagined, want to play some sort of cat and mouse game?

Taking up one of the sheets of paper again he began to write a letter to Reverend Crane's church, in care of whoever had taken over his father's duties, asking for information about both Jonathan Drake and Thomas Geoffrey. Maybe someone there could shed some light on the two men. At the very least perhaps he could ascertain what exactly the two men's connection was to one another as well as the nature of their business partnership.

Rereading what he'd written it occurred to him that he should ask about Geoffrey Latham as well. _Geoffrey Latham_ might have been a name that Jonathan Drake had simply created for himself. But perhaps there was a third man named Geoffrey Latham from Hartford involved in all of this, whom Drake had chosen to impersonate. Or perhaps Geoffrey Latham was some innocent man whose identity Drake had adopted. Ichabod crumpled the first letter and took another sheet, rewriting the letter and altering it to include a request for information on Geoffrey Latham as well.

There was a knock on the door of his laboratory. Ichabod glanced at the clock on the desk. It was two o'clock in the morning.

"Come in," he called out softly.

Katrina opened the door gingerly and stepped into the room. He watched her as she approached the desk and set the candle that she had used to light her way down upon it.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly.

Ichabod stood up silently and she reached out and took his hand, her face full of concern and compassion.

"Stephen told me how upset you were about Mr. Latham. Or Mr. Drake, I should say."

He sighed and gave vent to his feeling of frustration.

"You spoke to Stephen when I was out of the room then?"

"Before he went to sleep actually. I knew something was disturbing you, even if you managed to remain fairly even-tempered while you spoke of the day's events..."

"I let him slip away," he growled in a low voice, between gritted teeth, barely able to speak the words aloud.

"Ichabod..."

"I let both of them slip away from me."

"Your superiors required you to be in Court every day, Ichabod. They would not have released you from those duties, and certainly not to pursue a case that they consider a dead-end. Owing to a stroke of unusual generosity the High Constable agreed to let you continue the investigation on your own time, and you were lucky to be granted that. But you weren't allowed the time to watch Mr. Drake every single day, yet alone every moment."

"Nor was I aware of how deep his treachery went." Ichabod sighed. "That is something I should have guessed."

"Guessed? How? And why on earth would you assume that he was lying about his identity? Why would that have even occurred to you?"

"I should have trusted my instincts and followed them. Immediately when I met him there was something about him…he lacked ingenuousness. I sensed something unscrupulous about him. And I knew he was being dishonest in his answers after he viewed the body. I should have dogged him more and pressed him for further information, for more truthful responses, every day until he succumbed to the pressure I applied. Instead I became involved with Mr. Geoffrey..." he trailed off and brought a hand up to his forehead. "No. It can't be..."

"What's wrong?"

"Dolt!" he muttered to himself. He lowered his hand and shook his head. "I cannot believe how easily maneuvered I have been. Maybe I'm wrong. Mr. Horn told me that they are business partners. He couldn't be specific about what their business is exactly. God knows what they might be involved in. I wonder if Mr. Geoffrey didn't intentionally…perhaps he intentionally waylaid me, to take my attention away from Mr. Drake, giving him time to pack up and leave the city."

"It's possible, but Mr. Geoffrey seems to have troubles of his own. You said that he was determined to record the whole Eldridge trial in his art work, yet he neglected to appear."

"Perhaps the trial record was merely a ruse."

"If there is any ruse being acted on Mr. Geoffrey's part it is one that is meant to fool and put off a real enemy not the law or any of its representatives. That is my feeling about it, sight unseen. You've heard from two people that someone was hired to kill him, and even if their knowledge of the event is unclear a doctor has confirmed that he was attacked and wounded with a knife."

"Yes, but none of them know the true circumstances of the attack for certain. There is no definitive proof that his assailant intended to assassinate him. For all I know he was wounded when he foolishly became entangled in a simple tavern brawl, likely the one that occurred at the Black Cat that evening, and he unhappily found himself in a one on one contest with someone armed with a knife. All I have right now is the word of a tavern keeper who has not once been completely truthful with me and the proprietor of the Tontine who also has not been completely truthful with me; and further, didn't see anything first-hand and was merely repeating what Mr. Geoffrey told him. I have the doctor's story too, but again it only confirms that the injury was caused by a knife blade, nothing more." He exhaled deeply and frowned. "I don't know what to think. And right now I'm absolutely weary of speaking with so many dishonest, deceitful people."

"Has the proprietor of the Tontine been untruthful then?"

"He has answered my questions, it's true, but he has omitted much. I'm certain of that. And a lie of omission is still a lie."

Her hands closed around his forearms supportively. He gently extracted them from her grasp after a time then reached around to embrace her, pressing her against him briefly before leaning back to look into her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Katrina. The least I can do is to allow you to sleep peacefully. I hope you weren't too anxious when you woke and found that I wasn't there."

"I knew where I would find you," she replied with a light smile.

Her smile faded and she looked into his face searchingly, her eyes filled with concern. He smiled at her reassuringly.

"Come downstairs and try to rest, Ichabod."

"No, I…I can't sleep."

"Alright, then come downstairs and sit up with me."

"Katrina, I don't want to keep you awake…"

"We can at least make ourselves comfortable in the bedroom. Or if you prefer the sitting room."

He didn't wish to bring his work into bed. "Very well. The sitting room it is."

As Ichabod snuffed out the lamps in the laboratory and retrieved his ledger and writing implements Katrina took up the candle that she'd brought with her to light their way down the stairs. She slipped her other arm around his waist, clinging to him as they walked, as if she was worried that he would stay behind brooding in his laboratory if she didn't hold onto him and coax him downstairs. He wrapped an arm around her and clinched her tightly to him.

They slowly made their way to the sitting room. Katrina lit the candles in the room while Ichabod made a fire in the hearth. Then they settled down on the sofa together.

"I'll have to take a trip to Pelham," he said, frowning at the thought of having to take the inconvenient trip. "I want to interview the tavern keeper who held that message for Mr. Drake until today. I thought of writing to him but I don't think that will be sufficient."

"When will you go?"

"Tomorrow would be the best time…"

"Oh, Ichabod, you're going to work tomorrow?" She sounded disappointed and concerned, and her expression was crestfallen. "It's Sunday. I was hoping we could spend the day together…"

"I'm sorry." He draped his arms around her and pulled her close, embracing her tightly. She leaned against him, settling into his arms and resting her head against his chest. "I know I…you tolerate a lot from me. My obsession with crime and detection cannot possibly be pleasant for you all the time..."

"No, it isn't that, Ichabod. It isn't that at all. You know how much I value your work and how much I admire what you are striving to do. I just wish you didn't have to do it tomorrow…"

"I know," he said softly, tenderly kissing the top of her head. "I wish it as well. But if I don't go tomorrow then the earliest I will be able to do so will be next weekend. I've already allowed Mr. Drake to slip away…I have to at least try to find a trace of him if I can. I'll be in Court every day during the week, or patrolling the streets if my superiors decide to shift our duties, and I may even have to take a turn working on the weekend. Either way I will be unable to take the trip on any of the days that Court is in session. It is a trip that will take two or three hours at least, including travel in either direction, so I prefer not to first set out in the evening."

"What is in Pelham besides this tavern?"

"There is nothing besides farms and manors as far as I know, owned by very influential New York and West Chester citizens; and there is also the Boston Post Road."

"Stephen will want to go with you."

"Yes, I know," he chuckled softly. "But if I go tomorrow I think I shall go alone and allow the two of you to enjoy the day together."

"It won't be the same without you," she said with a slight pout.

He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, then held her close again and stroked her hair. "I know. I'm sorry. And I will make it up to you."

"What else will you do?"

"I've written a letter to my father's church."

She was silent, waiting for him to continue.

"Perhaps someone there can tell me more about the men named Jonathan Drake and Thomas Geoffrey. I've also asked for information concerning Geoffrey Latham, in the event that he is a real person whose identity Mr. Drake simply borrowed."

"So, when you and the others went to the cemetery to exhume the body of the murdered man, Thomas Geoffrey knew Mr. Drake, just as you suspected. And he must have known his real name."

"Yes, but he didn't want Mr. Drake to know he was there for some reason. He kept his face hidden with grime and ash, he pulled his hat down over his brow and he made sure that Mr. Drake didn't stop to take a good look at him, to realize who he was."

"I wonder why."

"As do I," he replied. "I asked Mr. Geoffrey about both Mr. Latham and Mr. Drake. In fact, when we met at the Tontine and I mentioned Geoffrey Latham…he merely repeated the name, and I actually clarified that Latham was the man who was with us at the cemetery, who had come to identify the dead man. He had to know I was mistaken about the identity, for he knew Jonathan Drake and would have recognized him; yet he didn't try to correct me, he said nothing. That strikes me as very odd."

"Yes. I wonder what his reason could have been..."

"Something sinister, no doubt."

"Do you have any theories as to who may have hired John Trent to kill Mr. Geoffrey?"

Ichabod shook his head. "_If_ John Trent was hired to kill Mr. Geoffrey. This may all be a fantasy. As I said Geoffrey may have simply been wounded in a brawl and exaggerated the story when he explained his injury to Mr. Horn and the others at the Tontine. It did cross my mind that perhaps Jonathan Drake was the one that hired John Trent to kill Mr. Geoffrey. Perhaps they were involved in some scheme together and Mr. Drake didn't want to share the rewards with his partner. On the other hand, that seems unlikely, as both of them have now disappeared. Mr. Geoffrey may have returned to Hartford as well."

"But he left his things behind."

"Perhaps he sacrificed his things in order to escape in a hurry. Or perhaps he truly is in danger, as Mr. Horn suspects, and another hired assassin could be making an attempt on his life, has already succeeded maybe." He sighed. "Of course, if we look at the other side of the coin...perhaps it is Mr. Geoffrey who was preparing to prey on Mr. Drake and didn't wish to share the rewards that may have been coming. Perhaps Mr. Drake fled the city in fear."

She raised her head to look at him. "I should hate for the latter to turn out to be true. From the way you spoke of Mr. Geoffrey...there seemed to be something rather nice about him. And you did like him in spite of yourself."

"Yes, maybe that's the problem. There are quite enough scoundrels and thieves out there who can be infinitely charming and who know how to play on one's sympathies. Besides, I see no reason why Mr. Drake would need to hire someone to kill Mr. Geoffrey if he wanted him dead. He's at least six or seven inches taller than I am and built like an ox; he could break Mr. Geoffrey in half if he chose to."

Ichabod leaned back with a long exhale and closed his eyes, feeling weary.

"Would you like me to brew some tea?" she offered gently. "I have a certain herb tea that will relax you and help you to sleep."

"No," he answered, remaining in the same position, eyes closed, and ever so slightly shaking his head, which he still rested against the back of the couch.

"You'd rather stay awake and fret, is that it then?"

"Yes," he replied dryly.

She poked his arm and he opened his eyes abruptly.

"There are several possible scenarios that occur to me and I'd like to organize a timeline of events as I know them, while it's on my mind. It may help me choose one scenario that's the most plausible."

"And you must do this now?"

"Mm-hmm."

As he raised his head again and sat up she settled back down against his chest.

"Well, then. First, Mr. Geoffrey left Hartford for New York City, and I am certain that he came to find me…" he trailed off and paused, following a train of thought.

"Yes, to bring you the news," she completed for him.

"Mmm. Whether it was his sole purpose in coming here or not, I have no idea. The obituary was printed on the first of March and he most likely left the next day, which was Sunday. He arrived by Thursday, the sixth of March, took a room above the Tontine Coffee House and then went to the Black Cat Tavern to drink. The brawl erupted some time that night, after which Lydia took him and John Trent through the kitchen and out into the alley, helping them to sneak out before the constables had a chance to arrest them along with everyone else. She bolted the back door after them, leaving the two of them alone in the dark alley. If we assume that Trent did attack Geoffrey then it is safe to say that it was at this point that he did so. He took out a knife of some sort. Geoffrey must have seen the blade coming in time to back up and he escaped with a less severe wound. Instead of the knife being plunged in he maneuvered in such a way that the knife slashed him, but not too deeply. But Mr. Trent wasn't killed with a knife. His head was split open, hit with a blunt object of some sort. My guess is that Mr. Geoffrey found such an object in the alley and used it to defend himself, killing Mr. Trent. The other possibility is that he merely used it to fend off Trent's attack and to escape, dropping it as he fled, and a third unknown person who was there picked it up and killed Trent with it.

"After this Mr. Geoffrey returned to the Tontine with the aid of two men, unidentified at this time. I have to wonder what circumstances led to Mr. Geoffrey's encountering them, or vice versa; either way it was a stroke of luck for him. The two men no doubt left the Tontine immediately after escorting Mr. Geoffrey there and Carl, the man working at the desk that night, fetched Dr. Booken to treat him. The next morning, the seventh of March, I discovered Mr. Trent's body, and upon finding the obituary I wrote to the Hartford constabulary and my father's church."

"And Mr. Latham…I mean Mr. Drake somehow got hold of that letter at the church and answered you, but he pretended to be Mr. Latham, your father's lawyer," Katrina said.

He sighed in frustration. "Not only was Drake pretending to be someone else, I believe that he was pretending to be the man who he assumed was dead – and who he expected to find in that grave we dug up. The key point is that he _wanted_ to identify the dead man with his own name; to bury himself and carry on his life as a different person. But to what purpose?" He heaved another sigh. "I don't know if this case is as overly complicated as I believe it to be or if I'm merely befuddled because it…because it involves my father, even if only in a peripheral way. And of course both Drake and Geoffrey have thrown obstacles in my way to further confound me. Think of that nonsense Drake brought up about a will that he knew I'd never be interested in. My letter was an inquiry about the murdered visitor from Hartford and he needn't have brought anything else into our conversation."

"Ichabod, I don't know what scheme these men were – or are still – involved in, but I'm certain that your father has nothing to do with it. They merely knew each other because those men were congregants in his church, and at least one of them came to you because you were his only next of kin."

"Yes, I suppose…" He shook his head. "The High Constable allowed me to pursue this case because he believes it to be a personal matter…"

"Well, it is."

"No, it isn't really. It is personal only in that I happen to be related to the man who is the catalyst that brought this situation into being, who brought these men here – or, his obituary is the catalyst. And I happened to be unlucky enough to stumble across the crime that was connected to it. But that is all. I'm not mourning my father…I care more about solving the murder of a stranger, and a disreputable one at that, than I do about the fact that my father has passed away."

He was certainly as cold-hearted as his father, he thought to himself as those words left his lips, but he wouldn't say it aloud.

Katrina shifted, resting her head against his shoulder now and drawing the palm of her hand across his chest, rubbing it.

Ichabod thought of the obituary again, his mind filled with the images and sensations of that morning when he found the body, discovering the folded newspaper in the inside coat pocket, remembering the way his heart palpitated and his hands went cold as his eye singled out his father's name in the headline. His hands shook when he read the obituary and his mind reeled at the coincidence of finding this body, with this newspaper, opened right to the exact page. "I…I regret…"

He trailed off and frowned, hesitant to say more. Feeling Katrina's gaze upon him he turned his face to her then began to speak again, but so softly that she lifted her head to bring her ear near to his lips. "I read the obituary once and put the paper back where I found it. Afterward I regretted that I didn't keep it. It's important that the body and the evidence remain intact…but I wonder if I had kept the paper whether it would have been…whether it would have been such a trespass…the obituary spoke of him as a pillar of the community and a fine religious man. How is it that he could present such a face to the rest of the world, one that they would believe, so different than what I knew of him? And how could they believe it?"

Her hand moved up to his face and she caressed his cheek soothingly. "Remember how we were all fooled by my stepmother."

He squeezed her tenderly. "Yes. And I am foolish to think that I would have gained any insight by reading that obituary countless times. It would have only been a painful reminder…a reminder that I don't need…why save such a thing? It is better that I replaced it in the victim's coat pocket…that is, Mr. Geoffrey's pocket." He stopped for a minute at that and his eyes widened. "Katrina! Drake _did_ hire Trent to kill Thomas Geoffrey!"

"What?" She sat up and peered at him intently. "Can you be so certain all of a sudden?"

"Yes! I interrupted myself in creating my timeline, which I shall pick up again now. Here is what I propose happened. Mr. Drake came to New York after reading my letter, for he expected to know the murdered victim that I wrote about. When he arrived he tried to take a room at the Tontine, but he was turned away, possibly without ever knowing that his friend Geoffrey was lodged there, and made his way to City Hotel instead. The very next morning he contacted me. We met and he told me about a man named Jonathan Drake, who had come to the city at the beginning of March and who he believed was the victim that I'd written about. I can only assume now that he was speaking of Mr. Geoffrey, since it is he who came to bear the news. There is no doubt in my mind that those clothes on John Trent's corpse belonged to Geoffrey. And it was Mr. Geoffrey that Drake presumed was murdered and who he expected to see in that grave. And that is why Mr. Geoffrey is hiding himself, by his dress and behavior, and why every employee at the Tontine has instructions to turn away anyone who asks after him. Maybe they even had instructions to refuse Drake a room should he come. I suspect he knew that Mr. Drake would arrive at some point to ensure that the task he'd ordered was done."

"So, was Mr. Drake trying to switch places with Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Maybe." He shook his head, bewildered. "I don't know. Why didn't he introduce himself as Thomas Geoffrey if he was switching places with him? Unless we assume there is a third party involved with Drake somehow..."

"That puts Mr. Geoffrey's presence there as a grave digger in an interesting light. It's a bit perverse, isn't it?"

"I imagine Mr. Geoffrey wanted to witness Mr. Drake's reaction when he discovered that the body wasn't his. Although actually…Geoffrey and his friend Lefty didn't stand by for the viewing. They went out to where the carriage was, to smoke. I don't quite know what his reason was for desiring to be present. Perhaps he merely wanted to keep his enemy in sight."

"That makes sense."

"I have to find Mr. Geoffrey. If this scenario is accurate, Mr. Drake…well, I don't know what Mr. Drake's next move will be. I only hope that Mr. Geoffrey is alright and that I can find him before any harm does come to him. I have one or two ideas left how I might track him down. I'll pay one more visit to the Black Cat Tavern to speak with both Augie Smith and his daughter tomorrow evening. Perhaps they are hiding him. In fact I believe I shall do that, rather than take the trip to Pelham. There is a man at the Tontine that I want to question as well, when he starts his work shift in the evening at eight o'clock. The man's name is Carl, and he was working on the night Mr. Geoffrey returned, wounded, to the Tontine. Two men brought him there. If this man Carl can point me to those two mysterious persons maybe they can lead me to him. I have an idea that one of those men might be Mr. Geoffrey's friend and cemetery co-worker Lefty.

"As for Mr. Drake…if he hired Mr. Trent he is guilty of a crime and he must be apprehended. If he has left the city, and that is a big if…he may have only made it look as though he has…but if he has left the city it will be more complicated to arrest him. Paperwork, applications and appeals will be necessary if he's returned to Hartford. I won't be able to merely go to him and arrest him, as I am an employee of the city and state of New York. I have no jurisdiction to arrest him in Connecticut without appropriate written authorization."

"Can you contact the constabulary of Connecticut then?"

"Yes, but I will have to present solid and compelling evidence, which will not be easy despite the fact that I have found enough clues to put this scenario together. And I will no doubt require permission from my superiors. That is something I shall have to look into on Monday. However my first priority is to find Mr. Geoffrey and guarantee his safety. Then I will deal with Jonathan Drake, who I believe is very likely still lurking about this city, waiting for another opportunity to carry out his original plan."


	13. Quarry

_**12. Quarry**_

Having decided to forego the trip to the tavern in Pelham Ichabod spent the next day with Katrina and Stephen, intending to return to both the Tontine and to Augie's tavern in the evening.

It was a mild and sunny April day that Sunday. Husband and wife rose late in the morning, having stayed awake talking until nearly dawn. Katrina packed food after suggesting that they take advantage of the beautiful weather and have a picnic. Ichabod agreed and they took a carriage out in the direction of the Village of Greenwich, stopping when they reached Lispenard Meadow. The meadow was already filled with New Yorkers who had left the city behind for a few hours and were taking advantage of the lovely day, spending it in fresh air among the lush greenery and marshlands. The three of them stayed for the entire afternoon, strolling, lounging in the sun on a blanket that they'd brought with them to spread out on one of the gently sloping hills in the meadow, picnicking, people-watching.

Even in times of leisure Ichabod found it difficult to turn off his keen detective eye. Now as always he couldn't help but scrutinize some of the people he observed before him, wondering what lurked behind their amiable smiling faces, what they might be hiding. He wasn't expecting to witness a crime occur before his eyes there, naturally. For the most part they seemed like plain decent law-abiding citizens; they were families and couples, most of them well-off. But it was a habit. Katrina and Stephen, as it turned out, were just as adept as he was at observing details and mannerisms of the passersby. Ichabod listened in incredulous silence as their conversation turned at one point from general remarks on their suppositions into a fictional narrative about the family they happened to be observing at a distance. Katrina would tell a few lines of the story then she would cease and Stephen would take over. They switched back and forth thus, until they'd woven an entire tale about this family of five that they'd never set eyes on before.

"What do you think of our scenario, Ichabod?" Katrina asked him playfully.

"Amazing," he murmured. "You both make worthy detectives."

"The Village of Greenwich is there?" Stephen suddenly asked, pointing.

Ichabod nodded. "It's a residential place."

"Isn't that where…?"

He could tell from Katrina's expression that she realized she shouldn't finish asking the question. But he answered her anyway.

"Yes, it is."

His expression darkened as he thought of it. The victim that James Eldridge was accused of molesting and murdering had lived in the Village of Greenwich, as had Eldridge himself. This is what Katrina had started to ask.

"That reminds me," he said, with a sigh. "Tomorrow the Burgomaster will be making his ruling on the defense attorney's request to exhume the body. It's going to be a nightmare if he grants the request." He looked at them meaningfully. "I urge both of you to stay as far away from the Court House as you can tomorrow. In fact, if you've no need to go out…"

"We'll be careful, Ichabod."

He shook his head. "Chances are he won't grant the request. I was shocked that he even agreed to consider the matter. Granting it would be a greater leap and too good to be true."

"Then you want him to grant it?"

"Despite the rioting and chaos that will come of it, in the name of justice I am hoping he will grant it, yes."

"What will they be looking for?" Stephen asked.

"One of the motives that the prosecutor is arguing is that the victim was with child by Mr. Eldridge and that he killed her to avoid the responsibility. Defense counsel wants an examination done to determine without a doubt whether she was or was not with child. And, of course, a physical examination of the body may reveal additional information that will be useful as evidence one way or the other, should the attorneys take advantage of the opportunity to assess and use it."

"Mr. Eldridge isn't being harassed anymore, is he? You haven't mentioned it and I haven't read anything about it in the paper."

"Although Mr. Eldridge was originally released on bail to await trial and was not remanded to jail he is now there anyway, for his own protection. Rocks were being thrown through his window at home, he was attacked on the streets, and that was the least of it…it was decided that he would be safer in a jail cell, where angry citizens couldn't get in and a guard would watch over him."

They were silent for a time then Stephen changed the subject by calling their attention to an interestingly-dressed couple strolling by and beginning a new history.

Late in the afternoon they set off for home, stopping along the way at a specialty food shop owned by a French couple, recently arrived in America, where they bought dinner. Katrina set the dining room table and they ate there instead of in the kitchen, in celebration as she said of it being a lovely Sunday and of they're eating a specially prepared gourmet meal.

"I'm glad you could spend the day with us." Katrina set her fork down and reached over, clasping Ichabod's hand tenderly.

"As am I. It was indeed a lovely day." He paused, thoughtful. "In the winter when the marsh freezes over people go ice-skating in Lispenard Meadow. I never have, of course."

"That sounds like fun. We have to go at least once next winter."

"We can go if you'd like."

"I'd like."

She squeezed his hand then released it and went back to her dinner.

"Augie Smith is going to throw a fit when he sees you again," Stephen remarked a little while later.

"You're right. In a short time I'll have replaced Constable Green as the bane of his existence. I shall go there first tonight. Then I'll return to the Tontine."

**oooOooo**

The Black Cat Tavern was already busy when Ichabod arrived later in the evening. Augie was nowhere in sight but he caught sight of Joe and Will, who were both working again. He walked to a table in one corner of the room and took a seat. From here he could inconspicuously observe everything that was happening. As he watched Joe and Will pouring drinks and serving the customers it occurred to him that they might have been the two men who helped Geoffrey make his way back to the Tontine on the night he was wounded. They were working that night.

"In which case they held back information too," he murmured to himself ruefully. "What a surprise."

He stood up, managing to step away from the table before he was seen and asked for his order, and walked to the front door. In minutes he was hurrying back toward Wall Street and the Tontine.

It was only about half past seven when he entered the Tontine so Carl was not there yet. Mr. Horn was behind the desk and he nodded a greeting when he saw Ichabod.

"Good evening, Constable Crane."

"Good evening, Mr. Horn."

"I'm sorry to inform you that I have no good news. Mr. Geoffrey has not returned, nor has anyone seen him."

"That is as I expected and feared, unfortunately. I'm here to question Carl when he comes in at eight o'clock."

"Ah, yes. Carl Ledley is his name. He'll be here in about half an hour."

"Yes. Mr. Horn, I should like to ask you a favor. I believe that I may have discovered who the two men are that escorted Mr. Geoffrey here that night. I'd like to bring Carl to the tavern where they are working tonight to see them, as he may be able to confirm their identity. It is a lot to ask, but would you be willing to allow him to accompany me when he arrives?"

Horn nodded sympathetically. "I understand, Constable. I'll remain here at least until Carl returns from his errand with you."

"Thank you."

When Carl Ledley arrived at quarter to eight Mr. Horn introduced Ichabod and explained what he needed.

"I'm happy to help, Constable. But to be honest I was quite alarmed to see Mr. Geoffrey in such a state and I don't know how much attention I paid to the two men who escorted him here that night. I can tell you that they did their best to hide their faces."

"Did you get a look at them at all?"

"I…I'm really not certain. Mr. Geoffrey is a friend of mine and I was extremely frantic when I saw that he was wounded."

Ichabod lapsed into thought, turning over an idea in his mind.

"I'll do my best, Constable. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful…"

"There is no need to apologize, Mr. Ledley. And in fact, I believe that you can be very helpful. Even if you are unsure, when you come to the tavern with me tonight I want you to behave as if you are absolutely certain that it is them."

"Constable?"

"If these two men are indeed the men who brought Mr. Geoffrey here that night I believe that they will recognize you. And I intend to watch their reaction to you."

"I see. You'll point them out to me?"

"Yes. And when I've done so, look at them and nod to me with certainty."

They left Horn at the front desk and made their way to Augie's tavern. Ichabod paused in the doorway and surveyed the room again. Then he led Carl Ledley inside.

"Watch the two men working, Mr. Ledley," he told him quietly. "One is there behind the bar pouring a drink. The other one is standing at the table in the back corner to our far left. Do they look familiar to you?"

Carl looked to one then the other, studying each of the men carefully. Both Joe and Will were preoccupied with their respective tasks but a moment later Will, who was at the table in the corner, turned and saw them. He gestured to several empty places. Carl nodded to Ichabod with confidence but his words were less sure.

"It could be them. They were making an effort to obscure their faces when they brought him. I do have a vague recollection of the height and build of both men and it is the same."

"Good."

Augie Smith stepped through the doorway from the kitchen at that point. Ichabod walked over to the bar, Carl Ledley following. The man named Joe was still behind the bar pouring several drinks and setting them on a tray that lay on the bar.

"Have you come back to have a drink, Constable?" Smith asked, scowling at him.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Smith. Mr. Geoffrey is still missing and I am concerned about his well-being."

Smith didn't answer, waiting for Ichabod to reveal his purpose.

"After he was wounded in the alley behind your tavern two men helped him walk back to the Tontine, where he was staying. This man was working at the Tontine that night and he saw them. He recognizes Joe and Will as those two men."

Joe whirled around upon hearing his name and his eyes shifted from Ichabod to Carl.

"Ah, you were the man at the front desk who went to get the doctor," he blurted out.

"That's right," Carl answered.

Smith frowned at Joe then turned his gaze to Ichabod. "Joe and Will did nothing wrong that night, Constable. They were only working here…"

"I only wish to piece together everything that happened that night. Of course they were not wrong in helping Mr. Geoffrey, but by withholding the knowledge..."

"How can I help you, Constable?" Joe asked, setting down the last drink he'd poured and leaning on the bar to face him in a _tête-à-tête_.

"Did you and Will assist Mr. Geoffrey that night?"

"Mr. Geoffrey is…"

"The man who was wounded in the alley on the night of the riot here. The sixth of March."

"Of course."

"You did not mention him when I last questioned you…"

"You were asking about the dead man then."

"I was asking for any information about what occurred in and around the tavern that night and you know it. Every one of you knows it." Ichabod sighed in exasperation. "Alright, so you and Will assisted the wounded man on the night of the brawl."

"Early morning, but yes, we did. We offered to bring him to Augie's apartments, it would have been closer; but he refused. He was able to walk...a little...and he wanted to go back to the Tontine." He glanced at Augie Smith for a moment then turned back to Ichabod and continued. "His stomach was bleeding a lot and he was pretty weak. He needed to be supported when he walked."

Behind him the door to the kitchen opened and Lydia emerged.

"The constable is speaking with Joe right now," Augie ordered when he saw her. "Finish pouring the drinks for him."

"Pour two more," Joe told her and pointed. "And it's for that table."

She obeyed and set to work.

"After we left him at the Tontine we both returned here," Joe continued speaking to Ichabod.

"How is it that you came to escort Mr. Geoffrey to the Tontine? Did you find him in the alley?"

Again Joe glanced at Smith. "Not…exactly."

"Please explain."

"We didn't go into the alley…he was in front when we found him."

"He came back into the tavern?"

"No, there were too many constables in the place. Nobody wanted to be in here. We ran into him on the street, a little way down."

"You both happened to go out into the street and happened to run into him?"

"Eventually," Joe answered with discomfiture.

Lydia had turned to face him now and as Ichabod's eyes fell on her she inconspicuously made a gesture and pointed to the ceiling. Ichabod averted his gaze and addressed Augie Smith.

"The apartment where you live is upstairs?"

"Next door, on the ground floor. We let out the upstairs rooms to travelers."

"I see."

Will approached the bar then and called out a new order of drinks. Ichabod spoke to him briefly about Mr. Geoffrey and the night of the brawl. His version of the story coincided with Joe's.

"Do you wish me to remain, Constable?" Carl Ledley suddenly spoke up.

Ichabod turned to him; he'd almost forgotten him. "Forgive me for keeping you, Mr. Ledley. You can wait for me to accompany you if you'd like, or you may return to work now. And I thank you for your help. If I have any additional questions I'll find you at the Tontine."

Ledley nodded to him and left the tavern.

"Well, Mr. Smith, I should like to inspect your apartment and the rooms upstairs…"

"You'll have to come back with a warrant, Constable. I'll not have you disturbing the privacy of my customers."

"Of course. In the mean time I should like to see your guest register."

"Guest register?"

"Yes, you have one, don't you?"

Smith turned away, cursing under his breath, and violently pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Ichabod was able to catch the words "worse than Constable Green" before Augie disappeared through that door and a smile played about his lips as he thought of the exchange he'd had with Stephen at supper over this very thing.

Joe was still leaning on the bar patiently. "Did you have more questions for me, Constable?"

"I should like to know how you and Will came to be in the street, where you could meet Mr. Geoffrey. Why would you have left the tavern?"

"I found Mr. Geoffrey." Lydia had returned to the bar after serving the tray of drinks, positioning herself next to and very close to Ichabod, and she spoke so softly that he almost didn't hear her. It took a full minute before he realized she had spoken and another few moments to absorb what she had said.

"You found him?"

"Yes. Joe and Will helped him but it was I who saw him first."

She shot Ichabod a meaningful glance and hurried behind the bar, disappearing through the door. Her father emerged a minute later. She must have sensed his approach.

"Here is the list of who is staying here."

He handed him a book, opened to a page which contained a list of apartment numbers with last names beside them. Ichabod glanced over the names, but he did not see the name Thomas Geoffrey.

Then again, he thought, Geoffrey might have used an alias the way Jonathan Drake had, and without knocking on each and every door there was no way to guess which name on the list might be the one he used.

"Thank you," he said curtly, handing the list back to Augie Smith.

"Constable, has it occurred to you that Mr. Geoffrey is perfectly fine and simply wishes to be left alone?"

"I have no doubt that he wishes to be left alone. Unfortunately he is involved in a crime and being left alone is not an option for him right now."

Augie Smith grunted. "By the time you return with the warrant a lot of these people will be gone, you know."

"Yes, and new people will have arrived. Goodnight, Mr. Smith."

Ichabod immediately went around to the alley behind the tavern and knocked on the door to the kitchen. Lydia Smith was angry at Thomas Geoffrey and he knew that she was ready to give him over to the law the moment she could do so. He suspected that she knew where Geoffrey was and would tell him; perhaps when she pointed to the ceiling she was hinting that he was hiding in one of the rooms upstairs.

The door opened after a couple of minutes as he expected and she poked her head out.

"Lydia," Ichabod began and her eyes brightened at the sound of her name. He corrected himself. "Miss Smith, did you come back out to the alley some time after you brought Trent and Geoffrey out through this door on that night?"

"Yes. But I didn't see the fight and I didn't see John get killed. When I came out again he was already dead and I saw immediately that Geoffrey was wounded."

"What did you do?"

"I was going to call one of the constables in the tavern over…there were enough of them…but my father came into the kitchen before I even had a chance to move."

"Your father? Wasn't he with Constable Green?"

She shrugged. "He saw me here at the open door and came over to see what was going on."

"Then he lied to me. As if I should have expected anything else. So, he saw Geoffrey and Trent too. Tell me what happened."

"My father will probably come back here shortly…meet me on the street around the front, at number seven."

"Number seven?"

"I'll take you upstairs. He's taken an apartment there."

"He has? Is he there now?"

"Just this morning he took the room…"

"You must take me to him…"

"My father is coming," she interrupted tersely. "Go around and wait in front of the entrance to the apartments. I'll meet you as soon as I can."

She disappeared inside and the door shut behind her. Ichabod sighed and walked to the end of the alley, turning right onto the street that ran perpendicular to it and then making another right onto the street where the tavern lay. He stopped at number seven, which was a few feet away from the door to the tavern, watching the entrance, prepared to wait for a long time. But after about ten minutes she reappeared, coming up from behind him; she'd left through the doorway into the alley and come around as he had.

"This way," she told him, smiling sweetly and taking his hand in hers.

"Miss Smith…"

"Shhh. Someone might hear us," she whispered, still clutching his hand and refusing to allow him to extract it from her grasp. "Up here."

Lydia pushed the door open with her free hand and led him up to the second floor, then pointed to the end of the hallway, toward the back of the building, and pulled him in that direction, stopping at the last door on the right. She knocked gingerly and waited. Receiving no response she knocked again, more loudly. Again there was no answer and she finally released his hand, reached into her apron pocket to withdraw a set of keys and quietly inserted one into the lock. She opened the door and stepped inside. He followed her in.

"I don't know why he isn't answering. I could have sworn he was here."

There wasn't a sound to be heard and the apartment felt empty and still. Ichabod began to move about the room, looking around. Mr. Geoffrey had brought no belongings here. Other than the battered furniture and other furnishings that Augie Smith had provided there was nothing in the apartment. There was a doorway at the other end of the room, leading to a second back room which served as the bedroom. Lydia followed him inside.

This room contained only a bed and a small end table. The window beside the bed was wide open and Ichabod rushed forward, realizing what had happened immediately, especially when he spotted the shoe prints on the sill. He thrust his head out of the window and looked down, finding that he was seeing right into the alley behind the tavern and its neighboring buildings. They were only on the second floor and it wasn't that large a drop from the window to the ground. It was too dark for him to see anyone out there and he caught no trace of movement. How long ago had Geoffrey gone? And where had he gone to?

"Dammit!" Ichabod closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Somebody came here to warn him."

"Someone…"

"I realize it wasn't you, of course…you want your revenge…you want him caught…"

"You disapprove of me."

He opened his eyes and turned to face her, shaking his head. "No," he replied gently.

"You didn't know him at all, not as I did," she murmured. "What right do you have to judge me?"

"I…"

"He could be a brute but he cared for me and would never hurt a hair on my head."

"I've no right to judge you. And I don't disapprove of you, Miss Smith. Not in the least. I'm only sorry that you…that you chose to spend your time with a man such as that. Perhaps he truly had good qualities that you appreciated and he must have treated you well. But he was a dangerous man and situations can change. Eventually he might have proven dangerous for you."

She didn't reply.

"Did your father tell you that he discovered that Mr. Trent was a killer for hire?"

Still she didn't speak but her eyes widened in disbelief.

"No," she said finally. "He never mentioned it."

"I do not know Mr. Geoffrey well. Perhaps you know him better."

She shook her head. "I've only seen him a few times. My father knows him though. He seemed a decent man, at least until this happened."

"Well, I don't know if it will matter to you, but I have a feeling that when all of the evidence has been viewed together there will be no doubt that Mr. Geoffrey acted in self-defense. Mr. Trent was hired by a man named Jonathan Drake to kill him. Have you met Jonathan Drake?"

"I've never heard of him."

"Then Mr. Geoffrey never mentioned him."

"Not in front of me."

He turned and left the back room. She followed him to the front of the apartment.

"Mr. Geoffrey's name wasn't on your father's list…did he register under an alias?"

"You didn't see it?" she asked. She began to laugh. "I thought you would see it immediately, Constable Crane."

"See what?"

"_He_ was Crane."

"Crane? What? He registered under the name Crane?"

It would seem he hadn't paid as much attention as he should have to Augie's list.

"Jonathan Crane," she replied, giggling.

Ichabod shook his head. "I don't believe it."

"I thought for sure you would spot it."

"Miss Smith…"

Her laughter subsided finally and she gazed at him with a serious expression. "Are you planning to wait here until Geoffrey returns, then?"

"What happened after your father learned that John Trent was dead?"

"Well, it's a long story, Constable, and I have to go back to work," she teased. "You'll have to come back and visit me…"

"Please tell me as quickly as you can. Every one of you has answers that I need and…"

Suddenly Augie Smith's voice rang out in the night air, reaching them through the open bedroom window. He was calling Lydia's name. Lydia's face instantly filled with alarm but she took a deep breath, appearing to gather her wits about her quickly.

"I'll go ahead of you, Constable." She started for the door. "I'll find my father before he comes to look for me here and keep him distracted long enough to give you time…"

"No." Ichabod grasped her arm to stop her. Her gaze fell on his hand and she smiled. "I'm coming with you, Lydia. I want to make certain that he doesn't harm you."

She pressed against him suddenly, leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "_Lydia_ again," she cooed. "I like that much better than _Miss Smith_, especially coming from you. You're very sweet, Constable Crane."

He released her arm and stumbled backward, away from her, his mouth open. "I-I…"

"Do I make you so uncomfortable when I flirt with you?" she asked with a playful pout.

"I-I'm here on an errand of business."

Her mood changed swiftly and she frowned at him. "Very well. Come downstairs and wait for a few minutes in the shadows so no one will see you. I'll keep my father busy…"

He shook his head. "Lydia, if something should happen with your father…"

"It's alright, Constable, really it is." She let out a harsh laugh. "My father thinks I've a tryst with someone now that he's seen the food merely being kept warm over the fire and me nowhere in sight."

"I've seen him hit you once. And I imagine that what I saw was not the worst of it."

"Well, I can be a difficult daughter, you know. It's painful sometimes but never fatal."

"Fathers can be wrong."

"I don't need your pity." Her tone was defensive.

"I'm only concerned for your well-being."

Her eyes brightened. "Maybe it would be best if you arrested me," she teased.

Ichabod sighed. "I do not wish to arrest you, Lydia."

"Well, maybe you should. If you do it will give you time to question me. I can tell you everything I know about that night and my father won't be there to stop me. But we have to leave this apartment. If he comes up here to look for me and sees that I've brought you, and without even waiting for you to bring a warrant, I'm done for."

"Wait. One moment, please." He walked over to the desk in the room, withdrew his ledger and tore out a page, then took out pen and ink and began to write. "Here is the address of the Watch House. Please. If you are in any trouble, if you feel that you are in any danger at all please go directly there and ask for me. If I'm not on duty ask them to send word to me at home. I shall return here tomorrow to try to speak with you but if you find that you can arrange a time to meet me, leave a message at the Watch House as to when and where."

"I still say you'd be better off taking me into custody but have it your way."

She took the paper, winked at him flirtatiously and plunged her hand into the bosom of her dress, depositing the page somewhere deep inside.

With that they left the apartment and Lydia locked the door. She hastily made her way downstairs. Ichabod followed her at a distance out of the building and to the alley to make sure that Augie Smith was not around when she entered the kitchen again. The door had not been bolted in her absence and she slipped right in.

"There you are!" he heard Augie Smith shout the moment she stepped inside. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I stepped out for some fresh air," Ichabod heard her stammer.

"You weren't in the alley."

"No, I went for a short walk..."

"You're a liar. I can guess what you've been up to."

It was dark in the alley and Ichabod moved away from the door. He stopped beneath a shadow and pressed himself up against the wall so Augie Smith couldn't see him when he poked his head out to look up and down the alley for a glimpse of Lydia's supposed tryst of the night, ignoring her feeble protests that there was nobody there. Satisfied when he saw no one he drew back inside and Ichabod heard the door slam shut.

Worried for her well-being and feeling completely stymied Ichabod moved back to the door and remained in the alley for about ten minutes, listening for the sound of violence and pondering his options. He heard no fighting or blows, and after he felt certain that she wasn't in immediate danger he left the alley.

He thought of going around to number seven once more and watching the door, waiting to catch Thomas Geoffrey on his way back to the apartment. But then it occurred to him that Geoffrey would probably not return there, at least not that night. Someone warned him that the constable had found this trail to him, and it was now cold.

Who had warned him? Augie Smith, Joe and Will were all in the tavern when he left to meet Lydia in the alley and he was certain that she hadn't warned him. She wanted him to arrest Geoffrey. He'd taken no notice of any of the patrons that evening. Had one of them gone out and contacted him? Augie Smith had disappeared to retrieve his list but he hadn't really been gone long enough to run up the stairs and issue a warning. Besides, he'd gone into the back, not out front to the street. Of course, if he knew where the window was to Geoffrey's bedroom he might have tossed pebbles up at it from the alley to get his attention and beckoned for him to climb down. This was plausible, although knowing this didn't provide any insight into where Geoffrey went to next.

Ichabod crept a few feet along the alley, glancing up at the second-storey windows. When he reached the window that he estimated by the distance to be the one leading into Geoffrey's bedroom he stopped. Although it wasn't a huge drop to the ground it wasn't small either. Even holding onto the sill and stretching to his full length before dropping Geoffrey would have fallen a long way. He may very well have injured himself, though perhaps not badly enough that he couldn't hobble away.

Carl Ledley was the only one that he'd definitely seen leave the place. But Ledley was there because he'd requested him to be there. Then again, maybe he, like Horn, knew more about Geoffrey than he wanted to let on. He had mentioned that they were friends.

It suddenly entered his mind that perhaps Geoffrey had returned to the Tontine, expecting that it would be the last place Ichabod or anyone else would look for him now. Thomas Geoffrey was quite possibly as adept at misdirection as Drake. Ichabod decided to return to the coffee house to search his room again and to ask Ledley more questions about Mr. Geoffrey's arrival on the night he was wounded.

"Well," he murmured to himself as he walked away from Augie Smith's neighborhood. "At least I know that Mr. Geoffrey is still alive – as of this morning anyway."

The main room of the coffee house was fairly empty when Ichabod returned and Carl Ledley sat behind the desk writing. Horn was beside him, perusing the pages of a leather-bound book. They both looked up when Ichabod approached.

"Gentlemen," he began. "Pardon my intrusion. I realize you've seen quite enough of me but there are other concerns that have arisen tonight, which I need to address here."

"Of course," Horn replied. At the same time Carl Ledley nodded and set his pen aside; Ichabod started and his eyes widened when he noted which hand he'd been holding it in.

"Mr. Ledley," he remarked imperiously, "you're left-handed."


	14. A Friend

_**13. A Friend**_

After seeing that Ledley was left-handed Ichabod easily concluded that Lefty was a plausible nickname for him, and that likely Ledley was the mysterious friend of Thomas Geoffrey who had accompanied them to the graveyard the morning they exhumed Trent's body. Lefty, like Thomas Geoffrey, had been dressed in ragged, dirty clothes and covered in dirt to the point of being unrecognizable that morning, but the height and build of the two men were close enough by Ichabod's estimation; Ledley had the same short, wiry frame. Having thus deduced that Ledley was Lefty, it became clear who had warned Thomas Geoffrey in the room above the tavern earlier that night. He'd had the opportunity, as Ichabod was still questioning Joe and Will when Ledley left the tavern, and he'd admitted that Geoffrey was his friend; it was natural that he would want to help him.

"I had no idea he was anywhere near that tavern, Constable," Ledley protested when Ichabod confronted him with his suspicions. "How could I have warned him?"

"Perhaps you didn't know he was there at first, but discovered his presence after we arrived. Lydia Smith, the girl who works behind the bar and in the kitchen, pointed at the ceiling and with that gesture managed to quite clearly signal the message to me that Geoffrey was upstairs. Perhaps you noticed Miss Smith's gesture too and drew the same conclusion that I did. I immediately asked Augie Smith to bring me the guest register; perhaps that helped you make the connection. Then you slipped away on the pretense of returning to work while I was still questioning the two barmen."

"And I immediately returned here," he insisted.

"Constable, I did not look at the time when Carl returned, but I'm certain he wasn't gone for more than half an hour," Horn chimed in.

"You had plenty of time to find Mr. Geoffrey upstairs and warn him to leave," Ichabod continued, paying no mind to Horn's interruption. "He is your friend. It stands to reason that you would wish to help him, however misguided…"

"It is true that he is my friend and I would wish to help him but that isn't what I did…"

Ichabod sighed. "You had motive and opportunity."

"But I didn't."

"I should like to go to Mr. Geoffrey's room again," he said, abruptly turning away from Ledley and addressing Horn.

"He isn't here, nor has he been here…"

"That is all very well. I should still like to inspect his room again."

Horn silently complied, retrieving the key.

"Please come upstairs with me, Mr. Ledley."

"Carl is working…" Horn began but Ichabod interrupted him again.

"I have a good mind to arrest Mr. Ledley for obstruction of justice and for aiding and abetting a criminal, in which case you would need to make other arrangements anyway, Mr. Horn."

Ledley's eyes widened. "What proof do you have? You only have suspicions…"

Horn stayed him with a pat on his shoulder and handed him the key.

"It's alright. I'll contact Mr. Henry if necessary." Horn turned to Ichabod. "He is entitled to an attorney should you arrest him."

Ichabod nodded. "Of course."

"Go with the Constable, Carl. I shall remain at the desk while you are in Mr. Geoffrey's room."

They left Horn at the desk and made their way up to the room in silence. Nobody was there and it appeared that Thomas Geoffrey's things had not been moved or disturbed in any way. The divan had not been slept on. Most importantly Geoffrey's ledger of sketches was still sitting on the desk.

"As you can see, Constable, we are telling the truth. He is not here, nor has he been here."

"So it would appear."

"Do you intend to arrest me then, Constable Crane?"

Ichabod didn't reply. He stood there for several minutes and regarded Ledley with an intent stare while he pondered whether or not he ought to immediately take him into custody. Another thought occurred to him then; he turned and walked over to the desk. He picked up Geoffrey's ledger and gazed at it for a moment, then he opened his overcoat and tucked it in the inside pocket, along with the pen and ink set that lay on the desk beside it.

"Is there any reason why…" Ledley began but Ichabod interrupted him.

"If Mr. Geoffrey returns and misses his ledger please tell him that I took it. He knows where to find me. I have every intention of returning it to him when we meet face to face again."

"That ledger is very important to him."

"I realize that. And I'm certain he would like to have it. The fact that he disappeared without taking it with him tells me that his departure was unplanned. When we meet again I shall personally give it to him."

"But that is…"

"Evidence," Ichabod replied succinctly. "There are several sketches in this ledger that depict the crime I'm investigating, as well as the victim."

Ledley fell silent and didn't argue further, but Ichabod caught the expression of dismay on his face before he suppressed it.

"You never denied or confirmed whether you are Lefty, the man who accompanied us to the graveyard on the morning that…"

"I'm Lefty," he answered, resigned.

"Then you recognized Jonathan Drake, who was there as well."

He nodded. "Geoffrey asked me to accompany him. I'll admit I thought it was odd, especially since he insisted that we both dress like vagrants. But he explained that he didn't wish to be recognized, not even by his friend, and he didn't want me to be recognized either."

"I see. And you simply complied with him and didn't question it?"

"As I said, I thought it odd. But after he was knifed the way he was…he had and still has his reasons for wishing to remain hidden."

"One of those reasons may be that he is guilty of a crime. That said your friend might also be in great danger."

"I know."

"And do you also know that I am trying to help him? That I wish to find him so that I can make certain he is protected? If you know where he is now I suggest you tell me, for his sake as well as yours."

Ledley shook his head. "I honestly don't know where he is now."

Ichabod studied him thoughtfully. "What about Jonathan Drake? Have you seen him?"

"Not since the morning in the cemetery."

"Very well. I have no need to inspect this room further. Let us return to the front desk."

"Alright. Then, are you arresting me?"

"No, not at this time," he replied. "If I discover further evidence to prove that you had any part in Mr. Geoffrey's escape tonight I will. For now I only have my suspicions. If you do see either Jonathan Drake or Thomas Geoffrey please contact me immediately. Send word for me at the Broad Street Watch House."

Carl Ledley locked the door behind them and they made their way downstairs. Horn glanced at them anxiously. Ledley nodded to him and took his place behind the desk.

Ichabod admonished both Ledley and Horn to contact him if they saw Thomas Geoffrey or Jonathan Drake, bid them both goodnight and left.

**oooOooo**

In the darkness the two shadows, one much shorter than the other, moved soundlessly off the front porch of the Tontine and hurried up Wall Street. Reaching William Street they made a right turn onto it. Only then did either of them dare to speak.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"Yes, he was the short, thin man with brown hair behind the desk," Stephen answered quietly. "Fair complexion, freckles."

Ichabod nodded. "Mr. Ledley finishes his shift at eight o'clock in the morning. I suggest you be at the Tontine at seven. _But keep yourself hidden._ Remember, in the first place Mr. Horn has seen you, just yesterday in fact, and he will no doubt recognize you. And Mr. Geoffrey has likely killed a man. If he catches you following him there is no telling what he may do to you. Please be aware of that and be careful. Be vigilant. And if you're faced with a choice between your own safety and keeping these men in sight, take care of yourself. I'm asking a lot of you and I don't want harm to come to you."

"I'll be careful." Stephen's eyes gleamed with excitement at the prospect of his new assignment. "Mr. Ledley will probably be going home to sleep when he leaves in the morning."

"Probably. But he may not want to wait until after he rises later in the day tomorrow. If my suspicions are correct I've no doubt he is quite anxious to meet his friend and advise him of my visit and accusations."

"Mr. Geoffrey will no doubt be dressed in rags?"

"No doubt."

They reached their house and turned toward the door. Ichabod paused and Stephen stopped with him.

"On the other hand, you may be right. Mr. Ledley may not go directly to meet his friend and you may have to wait many hours before he leaves his house again. Either way it will not be an easy task."

"I know. I'm not worried though."

Ichabod squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you, Stephen. I shall have to be in Court tomorrow and cannot keep Mr. Ledley under surveillance myself. I've already let two men elude me, Thomas Geoffrey twice. I do not wish for that to happen again. My hope is that Mr. Ledley will lead you to Mr. Geoffrey. You're helping me immensely."

They entered the house where Katrina, who had been waiting anxiously, received them with great relief.

**oooOooo**

Stephen Masbath was gone by the time Ichabod and Katrina made their way downstairs for breakfast the next morning, but he'd started a fire in the kitchen and made coffee, which was being kept warm over the flame. Katrina immediately poured out two cups, handing one to Ichabod. She served Ichabod his breakfast and packed his lunch while he ate.

"Today the Burgomaster is making his ruling," she began.

"Yes."

"I hope that there will be no riots because of it…"

Ichabod sighed. "I know."

He looked up from his breakfast and met her gaze, immediately grasping her concern.

"I know that I asked you and Stephen to stay close to home today. Please believe that I did have misgivings about asking him to follow Carl Ledley today of all days. But I believe that Stephen can take care of himself and will know how to stay out of trouble. He is very smart. And…I can't let anyone else elude me. Perhaps I'm being selfish and vain, and I'm sorry for it…but it is frustrating…"

"If this was a case that the constabulary was willing to follow up on I imagine you would have had at least one or two other constables working with you. You've had to work alone."

"And I am very grateful to have Stephen, who is so eager to help and very much inclined for this profession, should he choose it. He has a good analytical mind. And he is very brave. Much braver than I am."

"You are far more courageous than you believe, Ichabod." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "Stephen will be alright."

Ichabod raised an eyebrow. "I presume that you've taken your own precautions as to his well-being."

"If you're asking me if I drew a symbol of protection under his bed last night, the answer is yes," she replied with an enigmatic smirk.

"Hmmm," he grunted, wondering at the sentiment behind her mysterious smile.

When he'd finished eating she handed him his lunch and followed him into the hall. She placed a delicate hand on his chest and lightly tapped the book that she'd given him in Sleepy Hollow for his own protection, reassuring herself that it was there.

He grinned. "By now you ought to know that I don't leave the house without it in my pocket, against my heart."

She smiled and helped him on with his overcoat, wished him luck and they parted with a kiss.

The front doors were being unlocked just as Ichabod reached the Court. There was already a large crowd gathered and they began to push and shove, each person trying to get in early to get a seat so they wouldn't have to stand interminably. Ichabod and the other constables moved into the thick of it immediately, keeping an eye on things and making sure that no disturbances erupted. Assistant Attorney General Colden and defense counsel James Watkins had taken their places at their respective tables and at about ten minutes before nine Constable Foster appeared, escorting James Eldridge to the defense table, where he took a seat beside his counsel. A hiss had started up as soon as Eldridge appeared and Constable Whitten suddenly moved to the front of the room and called out for everyone to quiet down.

At nine o'clock Ichabod and the other constables took their places along the aisles and everyone waited for the Burgomaster to appear. Ichabod's gaze wandered to the place on the bench in the last row where Thomas Geoffrey had sat daily for the first four days of the trial. A well-dressed young man with dark hair and a swarthy complexion sat there now, leaning over periodically to speak with another gentleman who sat beside him with his back to Ichabod.

The Burgomaster appeared and the proceedings began.

"Before we bring the jury in there are two motions before me that I have to rule on. The prosecutor has submitted a motion to call the victim's physician ahead of the already-scheduled witnesses. Since there is no objection from the defense that motion is granted. Mr. Colden, is that witness here this morning?"

"Yes, he is. The prosecution intends to call Doctor Randall as soon as the jury is brought in. And then we'll proceed with the other witnesses in the order that was originally set."

"Fine." The Burgomaster wrote on two sets of paper in front of him, presumably copies of the order in question, and set them aside.

Ichabod studied him carefully as he shuffled some other papers on his desk, scratched his head and cleared his throat, noting that the Burgomaster seemed nervous.

"Next, I've read defense counsel's motion for an exhumation and full examination of the victim's body as well as the prosecutor's opposition to that motion." He picked up two leather-bound folders of identical thickness. "If counsel will approach the bench, I have a copy for each of you of my written ruling. I am allowing the exhumation, and the exhumation order is contained within this ruling. Mr. Watkins, I understand that you already have a physician in mind to conduct the examination and testify as to his conclusions. Mr. Colden, should you desire you may also bring in a physician of your own choosing to conduct an examination for the prosecution and to testify about his findings. Counsel will give this court and one another two days notice as to when they will call these witnesses, and this can be done orally before we bring in the jury. No written submission will be necessary."

Both counsel approached the bench and the Burgomaster handed each of them one of the folders he had been holding, as well as another set of papers. As they walked back to their seats he turned to Constable Whitten.

"Constable Whitten, you may bring in the jury now."

There was a loud rustling in the courtroom as the spectators shifted uncomfortably and began to murmur disapprovingly. The Burgomaster banged his gavel and glared out into the courtroom, and the crowd became still again.

A few minutes later Constable Whitten brought the jury out to the courtroom. Then he hurried to the back and left the room.

_He's going to warn the constables working outside_, Ichabod mused fretfully. He could hardly believe that the Burgomaster had made this ruling and though he was glad about it, he was also worried about the uproar that was sure to erupt outside.

Ichabod sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long day – and night.

Assistant Attorney General Colden called Doctor Randall to the stand once the jury was seated and the trial was in progress for the day.

**oooOooo**

Stepping outside for a breath of fresh air when trial adjourned for lunch at around noon Ichabod was surprised to find that the streets were clear of any crowds, yet alone rioting. People passed by in both directions, going about their business. A few of them glanced casually at the crowd spilling out of the Court House, but nobody appeared particularly interested in what was going on. Perhaps news of the Burgomaster's ruling hadn't reached the public yet, nor reports of Doctor Randall's testimony; the doctor had confirmed that the victim was a patient of his, that he hadn't seen her for several months before she died, and that she never presented to him with any suspicions that she might be with child.

James Watkins had successfully cast doubt on one of the prosecutor's suggested motives. There were sure to be people who would be angered by this development.

The chill that had been in the air when he left early in the morning was gone and it was a pleasant afternoon. Ichabod sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun's warmth on his face and taking some deep breaths. The courtroom had felt especially close today for some reason.

After several minutes he went back inside and took a seat on one of the benches. Most of the spectators had left the courtroom for lunch but a couple of stragglers remained, including the gentleman who was sitting in Thomas Geoffrey's usual spot and his companion. Ichabod sat quietly and ate his lunch, absently glancing every once in awhile at the two men, who in their turn paid him no mind. They were conversing in hushed tones and sharing food and a bottle of something that Ichabod assumed to be alcoholic.

A boy standing in the back corner of the room caught Ichabod's eye suddenly. He was filthy and dressed in ragged shabby clothes. A cap completed his outfit, and though it was pulled down over his face and obscuring his eyes he gave the distinct impression that he was watching these same two gentlemen. Judging from his appearance Ichabod suspected that he was a street urchin and that he'd pegged the men as targets to pickpocket.

Ichabod stood up and made his way over to the corner. He stared at the child sternly and beckoned to him. The boy didn't budge though he'd clearly seen his gesture, and Ichabod moved in closer.

"Come with me, young man," he ordered, taking him by the arm and leading him out of the courtroom.

"I want to watch the trial, Constable," he protested when they were in the hallway.

Ichabod's jaw fell at the sound of the voice and he dropped his arm.

"Stephen?" he exclaimed in disbelief.

Stephen brought a finger to his lips indicating for Ichabod to lower his voice, but he grinned underneath the grime. Recovering himself from the initial shock Ichabod took Stephen's cue and spoke softly.

"What on earth? Why are you dressed that way?"

"So I wouldn't be recognized."

"What?"

He laughed quietly then answered, continuing to keep his voice sotto voce so that only Ichabod could hear. "Katrina and I planned this last night. She wrecked these clothes and promised to buy me new ones to replace them."

"I don't believe it. This must have occurred after I was asleep last night."

"Yes. I guess it works. Even you didn't recognize me," he laughed again.

"What are you doing here?"

Stephen began to speak in a whisper and Ichabod knelt down, leaning in to hear him. "I followed Mr. Ledley from the Tontine. He met a man outside of a tavern called the Golden Horse, not far from the Black Cat. I was able to get close enough to hear them talking. The second man wasn't dressed in rags, as you said Mr. Geoffrey would be, but I heard Mr. Ledley call him Geoffrey. They walked from the tavern to a residence on Maiden Lane and made plans to meet later. Then Mr. Ledley went inside and I followed the other man here."

"Here? To this courtroom?" Ichabod replied breathlessly.

"He's inside now. That gentleman in the back row, at the very end of the row. The one with dark hair."

Ichabod shook his head, muttered a curse and sighed. "So, he's been sitting right under my nose all morning. What utter audacity."

"I would have spoken to you about it but I didn't want to draw attention…"

"Well, you already drew attention to yourself. I thought you were a pickpocket studying your next targets."

Stephen laughed softly.

"Don't laugh. I might have arrested you."

"But it would have been alright as soon as I told you who I was."

"And what if another constable had taken note of you and arrested you? Next time we should discuss this and plan together."

The boy fell silent and frowned slightly. "Alright."

Ichabod rested a hand on his shoulder.

"But...you've done fine work this morning. Thank you."

"Are you going to arrest him?"

"Not yet. I believe it would be prudent to gather more information and catch him and his friend Mr. Ledley together."

"Shall I still keep an eye on him then?"

"Yes. Luckily things are calm currently, but that may not be the case when Court adjourns this evening. In which case I'll have to work with the others to restore order and you'll have to keep our quarry in sight. Unfortunately I'm afraid you'll be rather conspicuous in the courtroom."

"Only because it's empty now. I've been in there all morning and you didn't notice me. Nobody did. I just wandered in off the street and got caught up in the spectacle," he added playfully.

Ichabod studied him incredulously for a few minutes. "I must say, you've far exceeded my expectations, Stephen."

"Then I can stay inside?"

He nodded. "Yes. And again, please be careful. Remember also that there may be a ruckus later. Don't get caught up in it. I'll go directly to the Watch House after our tasks are finished here. Send word for me there and advise where I can meet you."

Ichabod stood up and led Stephen back into the courtroom. "You may stay and watch the trial, young man," he reprimanded quietly once they were inside, playing his own part in case the two men had taken notice of them. "But stay out of trouble and don't disturb the other gentlemen who have come to observe."

**oooOooo**

The afternoon proceedings continued without incident and Court adjourned at five o'clock. The constables made sure the crowd in the courtroom and outside the Court House dispersed peacefully. Ichabod was occupied with this and didn't see Stephen or Thomas Geoffrey leave. He made his way to the Watch House at around five-thirty, praying silently that the child was safe and wondering how long it might take until he heard from him.

As he approached the Watch House a woman's voice stopped him.

"Constable Crane?"

Ichabod turned and recognized Lydia Smith, though she was attempting to keep her face hidden. She was standing very close to the wall of the building and clearly trying to stay in the shadows.

"Miss Smith?"

He walked toward her and she turned away.

"Come inside..."

"No," she replied quickly.

"You did come to speak with me, to give me information about the night of John Trent's death, didn't you?"

"Yes, but not inside."

Ichabod watched as she continued to make an effort to hide her face every time he moved closer to glimpse it. Suspicious of the reason he took hold of both her arms gently, forcing her to stand still so he could see her face. He gasped when he saw the cut above her right eye and the bruises on her right cheek and on her neck, unable to suppress his dismay at the sight of her injury. She cursed at him and yanked her arms out of his grip.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry…"

Lydia suddenly began to walk swiftly away from the Watch House, toward the Hudson River, and he hurried after her.

"Please…Miss Smith, please come inside. We can talk…"

"I've already been inside, Constable, to ask for you. I do not want to go back."

He groaned, understanding immediately what had happened. High Constable Warwick or another equally obtuse constable had received her and, noticing the cut and bruises, made assumptions about her and treated her cruelly.

"Wait…please. Let me take you somewhere safe. We can sit down and you can give me your testimony."

She slowed her pace. "I'm not going into the Watch House."

"You don't have to. I'm sorry…I shouldn't have…I should have respected your wish for privacy."

Lydia brought a hand up to her face and wiped her eyes.

"I'm expecting an important message to arrive at the Watch House for me. I only need to go in to retrieve it or leave forwarding instructions if it hasn't arrived there. You may wait outside for me if you don't wish to come in."

"Alright," she finally replied after some hesitation.

They walked back to the Watch House and she waited in front, away from the door, while he hurried inside. There was no message from Stephen yet and Ichabod left instructions for them to forward any messages that came for him to his home.

When he went back outside he found Lydia Smith pressed against the wall of the building again, keeping to the shadows and anxiously surveying her surroundings. An expression of profound relief crossed her features when she saw him.

The streets were crowded at this time and it would take longer to get anywhere by cab but Ichabod didn't want to force her to walk when she was feeling so vulnerable. He led her over to Broadway and hailed an approaching carriage.

"Forgive me, Miss Smith," he apologized again as the carriage crawled at a snail's pace along Broadway.

"You did nothing."

"But I'm responsible. I heard your father questioning you last night. When I didn't hear any sounds from inside I assumed you were alright. I should have gone back inside the tavern to make certain."

"I didn't have to tell you the things that I told you," she replied somewhat curtly. "I chose to."

They sat in silence for the remainder of the ride. When they reached William Street Ichabod paid the driver and escorted Lydia to the front door of their home.

"This is where you live?" she asked in surprise. "I didn't realize constables were paid so well these days."

He called out to Katrina after they entered the house, announcing that he'd brought a visitor so she wouldn't be surprised. Then he led Lydia into the parlor, lit the lamps in the room and gestured for her to make herself comfortable.

"I'll be back in just a moment."

Ichabod left the room and went to greet Katrina who was coming down the stairs. She kissed him on the cheek and he embraced her.

"Forgive me for not sending word earlier. This was unexpected. A witness has come forward and for her safety I've brought her here to question her."

"Is this the woman from the tavern that you've mentioned?"

"Yes. I cannot question her at the tavern. She has already suffered enough because I've been nosing around there. And they treated her very unkindly when she went into the Watch House to find me. I didn't want to force her to remain there. I'm sorry, Katrina. Hopefully this won't take long."

"Stephen hasn't come back…"

"I'm waiting for a message from him. He was following Mr. Geoffrey and will send word as to where he is. And that reminds me…we shall have to have a talk later about you scheming with him that way and not keeping me informed."

She turned wide brown eyes on him.

"Don't look so innocent. I already discovered his masquerade and he admitted that you helped."

"Was it so wicked of us, Ichabod?"

"Yes," he answered, and kissed her on the lips. When he released her he saw that she was grinning.

Ichabod rejoined Lydia in the parlor. She had taken a seat on the sofa and was fidgeting nervously. He went to the small table in the room and arranged himself so that he was facing her.

"Do you need to write?"

"I'm going to listen, but I will have my ledger out in case it is necessary to take a few notes," he replied, withdrawing his ledger, pen and ink and setting it up on the table. He opened the ledger to a blank page and leaned back in his chair, focusing his attention on her.

"Whenever you're ready to begin," he said.

She leaned forward on the edge of the sofa and began to recount the events that she'd witnessed on the night of the brawl and John Trent's death.


	15. Lydia's Story

_**14. Lydia's Story**_

_After letting the two men out the back way Lydia had bolted the door behind them and remained in the kitchen, wishing to avoid the mob of patrons and constables. She busied herself with tidying up the kitchen. Sometime later, though she had no sense of how much time had passed, she was interrupted by loud pounding on the door from the alley. Frightened that perhaps the constables had come around to the back, she didn't answer the door in hopes that they would assume no one was there and leave._

_The pounding didn't last long. It grew weaker and then ceased altogether. She remained quiet and motionless, waiting to see if the pounding would start again. It didn't. Finally curiosity got the better of her and she crept back to the door and unbolted it, hoping that whoever had been there was gone. Instead she found Mr. Geoffrey leaning against the wall when she opened it; he looked up when she poked her head out and asked her to fetch a doctor. Looking him over, she saw immediately that his hand was pressed against his stomach and blood was seeping out from underneath, leaking through his fingers. Then her eye caught sight of the heap on the ground in the alley behind him._

_She stepped out, wanting to rush over to see if he was alright but with a sudden burst of strength Geoffrey moved to bar her path and restrained her with an outstretched arm._

"_He needs a doctor too!"_

_Geoffrey shook his head. "It's too late."_

_Lydia began to scream and turned to go inside. Geoffrey pulled her back with one hand and reached down with the other, placing it over her mouth. She attempted to pull herself free from his grip so she could go back inside. Her intention was to go out to the main room and alert one of the many constables who were breaking up the fight in the tavern and apprehending the patrons. In the time that they were struggling her father had come storming through the kitchen. Geoffrey released her when he saw Augie Smith in the doorway behind her. She whirled around to go back in but Augie blocked her way._

"_What do you mean, screaming like that? Don't I have enough problems with the constabulary right now?"_

_She tried to explain but she was in tears and too distressed to speak coherently. Annoyed, her father shoved her aside and stepped forward to speak to Geoffrey, immediately noticing that he was bleeding from his torso. He saw the dead Trent sprawled on the ground, and deduced in an instant what had occurred._

"_Get back inside, Lydia. And keep your mouth shut."_

_At that point she obeyed her father and returned to the kitchen, but she remained by the door, listening. She heard her father say in a hearty voice, "Good work, man," and then tell Geoffrey to leave the alley and go around to the front. Angered at this she moved back to the doorway and shouted tearfully at the two men._

"_He's a murderer. We should bring one of the constables in…"_

"_Didn't I tell you to get inside and keep your mouth shut? We're not saying anything to any constable. This man has done me a favor. And don't you look at me that way. I'll give you what for. That man was no good. Do you think I don't know that you were spending time with him out of spite toward me?"_

_He turned to Geoffrey._

"_Wait in front of the entrance to the rooms upstairs. Number seven. I'll send Joe or Will to take you upstairs, and to get a doctor for you. Constable Green is waiting to speak with me further, so I have to go back out there with the papers for this place."_

_Geoffrey began to protest but Augie interrupted him, oblivious._

"_Go, now. We'll take care of the body afterward. The place is swarming with constables and you shouldn't be seen back here."_

"_What if someone comes into the alley?" Lydia challenged. "One of that swarm of constables may come into the alley, just to inspect things. We could get into trouble. Are you so beholden to him that you're willing to go to jail for something he did?"_

_Her father smacked her across the mouth. "You stupid girl, all they'll see is a body. And if they knock on this door here you'll unbolt it and open it, and they'll see a young woman. The last thing they'll think is that she killed a man. They'll ask you if you saw anything and you'll say no."_

"_I won't do it!"_

_Her insistence that she wouldn't cooperate earned her another blow, this time on the side of her head._

_Augie disappeared then, leaving her alone with Geoffrey._

"_I'm sorry, Lydia," he began. "I didn't mean for it to happen. He attacked me and I was only…"_

_She didn't stay to listen, instead stepping back inside, slamming the door shut in his face and bolting it. Once inside in the light she noticed that there was blood on her dress; when Mr. Geoffrey restrained her blood from his wound had gotten onto her own clothing. For a long time she waited in the kitchen, listening to the tumult in the tavern and waiting for the dreaded knock on the door from the alley, which never came - thankfully, given the state of her clothing. Her father finally reappeared, with Joe and Will. They ignored her and passed out into the alley, where she heard her father suddenly exclaim something about Mr. Geoffrey being as smart as a whip. The three men came back inside a moment later and Augie bolted the door. Will was holding a long heavy wooden plank, which was covered in blood on one side._

"_He exchanged clothes with the man!" he exclaimed again._

"_Where are we going to take the body?" Joe asked._

"_Nowhere. We're going to leave it where it is. Trent is now dressed in Geoffrey's clothing and he looks like a gentleman. And he has no identifying papers on him. Mr. Geoffrey thought of everything. No one will be able to identify Trent or connect him to anyone here. The only thing they may believe is that he was a casualty of a fight that started here, among a mob…"_

"_What about Mr. Geoffrey?" Will asked._

"_You took him back to the inn where he is staying and they have fetched a doctor. There is nothing else to do for him."_

"_He isn't upstairs?" Lydia asked._

_Joe shook his head. "We were going to take him there and bring a doctor back but he insisted on going back to the place where he was staying. He could hardly walk and we had to support him the entire way. Sort of a crazy man, he is."_

"_For certain," Will agreed._

"_Crazy or not, I am indebted to him. This incident will otherwise stay secret amongst the four of us." With that Augie fixed Lydia with a threatening gaze. "Mr. Geoffrey did the world a great service tonight and I don't want to hear a word from anyone otherwise. If you say one word to anyone, Lydia…"_

_He didn't finish the sentence, content to make his point by bringing his hand across his neck in a slicing motion._

"_If asked we can say we recognize him as someone who patronized the tavern," he continued. "We simply lost track of everyone this evening, including him. And if he returns here needing our help we will give it to him."_

_They left the kitchen, Lydia trailing behind, and went out into the main room of the tavern, which was in a shambles. Every table and chair had been overturned and many of them needed to be repaired. Broken glass and crockery were strewn about the floor and there were pools of ale and whiskey where drinks had been overturned. Augie cursed profusely as he took in the sight of the room._

"_Burn that plank and get this room cleaned up," he told them._

_Will walked over to the fire and tossed the weapon that Geoffrey had used onto it. The flames licked at it, slowly dissolving the blood-covered wood into ash. While Lydia, Joe and Will began to straighten the tables and chairs that were intact Augie Smith left the tavern, presumably to go upstairs to bed. The three of them worked the whole night, cleaning and disposing of the refuse. Some of the chairs didn't require much repair and Will began to fix these._

_They never saw Geoffrey after that until the past Wednesday evening when he walked in with Ichabod._

**oooOooo**

For a long time after Lydia finished her tale Ichabod sat motionless, absorbing everything she'd said and pondering what he ought to do. He had her statement and with it evidence and cause to arrest her father for obstruction of justice and shielding a murderer. However if he charged Augie Smith he would also have to charge Lydia, Will and Joe, though the circumstances and motives were different. Augie Smith consciously chose to keep the details of the crime from the constabulary and to actively hide the criminal; as well as coercing others to do the same. Will and Joe were doing what their boss ordered them to do, and while he could understand that they were concerned for their jobs, they were still both at fault; one of them had burned the murder weapon after all. Lydia's case was much trickier. She had been threatened in not so many words and was therefore afraid, with good reason, to come forward, even though she wanted to.

But what would happen to Lydia if he only arrested her father, or arrested the three men but not her? Augie Smith owned the tavern. She likely depended on him and would have no financial means at all. If she was left alone there was no telling how bad her situation would become.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she said abruptly with some annoyance.

"I was thinking about what you just told me, and how to proceed," he replied apologetically.

She sighed sadly. "If I'd opened the door maybe Mr. Geoffrey would have stopped and John would be alive. I'm sure it was John pounding on the door. He needed help and was trying to come back in."

"You don't know that. It may have been Mr. Geoffrey who was pounding on the door. I believe that Mr. Trent attacked him first, with a knife, and that he was acting in self-defense. From your statement it appears that he was about to explain that to you."

"So he says," she retorted.

"And whether it was Mr. Trent or Mr. Geoffrey pounding on the door, you don't know how it would have turned out. Perhaps you would have been harmed as well if you'd opened the door."

Lydia folded her arms and frowned. Ichabod picked up his pen, hastily dipped it in ink and jotted a few notes down on the blank ledger page. He paused for a few moments before continuing with his interview.

"What happened after Wednesday, when I came in with Mr. Geoffrey? He was lodging at the Tontine but suddenly disappeared. Yesterday you revealed to me that he had taken a room above the tavern, but he disappeared from there, too. Do you know where he is now?"

"No, I don't."

"When did he first take the room above the tavern?"

"Sunday morning."

"Yesterday," he murmured, and made some more notes. "Do you still have the dress you were wearing on the night that Mr. Trent was killed?"

"My father took it and burned it."

"I see," he sighed. "Miss Smith, if I arrest your father I'll need to use your statement…"

"If you arrest my father you'll have to arrest me as well."

"Yes, that thought crossed my mind. But I don't know if I believe that you should be held completely accountable. Your life was in danger."

She snorted derisively. "My father makes a lot of noise."

"No, it's more than noise. He has no qualms about injuring you obviously. When the opportunity arose you did try to tell me. And now you've come forward to share what you know. But I realize that it wasn't easy and that he made you afraid."

"Joe and Will were involved, too. Really, you will have to arrest all four of us if you're going to arrest my father."

There was a soft knock on the parlor door.

"Come in," Ichabod called.

Katrina stepped into the room cautiously. "I'm sorry to disturb you. Stephen has returned." Her gaze shifted to Lydia Smith. "Good evening."

Lydia didn't respond, instead turning her face away so Katrina couldn't see her. Katrina left the room and shut the door again. Ichabod was silent for several minutes, painfully aware of the humiliation that Lydia was no doubt feeling.

"Unless you are planning to arrest me now I have to go back to work," Lydia said suddenly, rising from the sofa.

"Is he waiting for you?"

"I'm expected to return this evening, yes. I work every night, Constable."

"Will you be alright though? Your neck and…" he trailed off. Lydia's face had contorted into an expression of pain and anger. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve to be treated that way. No one does."

She didn't reply.

"Did he know where you were going when you left to go to the Watch House?"

"He might have his suspicions," she replied with a shrug.

"But he allowed you to leave."

"Some of his friends and acquaintances came into the tavern and he sent me away. They were probably discussing something they didn't want me to hear, so I was told to get out. I'm certain it wasn't his preferred choice. He'd rather keep an eye on me. I was supposed to go back to our apartment but I went to the Watch House instead."

"He may be looking for you at the apartment then," he gasped in alarm.

She merely shrugged. "Maybe."

Ichabod sighed and rose to his feet. "I'll take you back to the tavern."

"That won't be necessary. Besides, if I arrive with you by my side my father is sure to be suspicious."

"But he will question you, won't he?"

"Hopefully the tavern will be busy and he won't have time."

He sighed again, withdrew money, counted off what he thought would be enough and approached her, holding it out. "Here. This should be enough for a cab to the tavern, as well as extra for a return trip should you need to come back here."

Lydia hesitated.

"Please take it. I've taken you a great deal out of your way and I'm worried about your safety. Hopefully you won't need to make the return trip. But if you do, if you're in danger, if you feel afraid, come here."

"That's all very well, but then what? Are you going to allow me to stay here forever? What do I do tomorrow?"

Her voice was firm and rational when she spoke, her eyes clear.

"I realize it's only a temporary solution but at least you won't be in immediate danger tonight. And it will give us a little bit of extra time to find a more permanent answer." He still held the money out to her. "Please."

She frowned and took the money from his hand reluctantly. He led her out of the parlor and into the hall, where he found Stephen crouched next to the door, his face still covered in grime.

"Sir, it wasn't him," he blurted out, leaping to his feet. "But it was…"

Ichabod held up a hand. "It's alright. We'll speak of this in a few moments. Miss Smith needs to return to the tavern. Would you flag down a carriage for her?"

"Hello, Miss Smith," Stephen greeted her pleasantly then turned back to Ichabod. "Of course. Shall I go all the way to the tavern…?"

"That will not be necessary," Lydia said quickly. "Thank you."

She turned back to Ichabod.

"Your son is very sweet, Constable," she said as Stephen hurried out the front door to hail an approaching cab. "You are too. I know you mean well. But you don't understand how it is."

She bid him good-bye and followed Stephen out the door.

**oooOooo**

_Reverend Crane usually avoided hitting him in the face. Whether using a switch or his bare hands he aimed for Ichabod's back, his backside, any part of his body that was under his clothes where evidence of the blows wouldn't be seen. Sometimes he twisted Ichabod's arm until it bruised; but he managed not to twist it so far that it broke. The few times that his father did hit him in the face were the most terrifying, for those were the times when he was so furious that he completely lost control._

_The day the reverend killed Ichabod's mother and found him in that room full of horrors was one of those times. And the day before Ichabod left home was another. He could no longer even conjure the vaguest memory of what his father was angry about on that particular day; he only remembered the livid expression on his face, how red it was, the way the vein stuck out prominently in his forehead as he approached him, the force with which he smacked his cheek…_

"Ichabod?"

Katrina's worried cry jolted Ichabod back to the present abruptly. He was still standing in the hallway staring at the front door through which Lydia Smith had disappeared, but Katrina now stood before him grasping his shoulders. Ichabod blinked and stared down into her face. His mouth was dry and when he opened it to speak he found that no words would come. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead and his heart was pounding.

"Ichabod, what is it?"

"I…nothing…I…I was thinking…"

"You looked like you were having a waking nightmare."

He took a deep breath and then another one, trying to regain his equilibrium. "I'm alright."

Her eyes, filled with concern, probed his face intently. He felt his cheeks flush and he averted his gaze.

"I saw her," she murmured.

"What?" he said with a start, looking at her again in confusion.

"I left the room as quickly as I could. I didn't mean to embarrass her."

Her expression was profoundly sad.

"Oh," he answered softly. "Oh, yes. I know."

"Given how your father behaved to you, it must be difficult for you to see another person treated that way."

For a moment he stood stock still, stunned by this connection that she had made, though it shouldn't have surprised him and feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Then he heard himself answer, "Yes," the word escaping his lips in a breathless exhale. He felt Katrina suddenly wrap her arms around him tightly and press her body against his, bracing him to prevent him from falling.

"Katrina," he mumbled, leaning over and letting his head fall limply on her shoulder, his eyes closed.

"Come into the parlor and sit down," she coaxed gently.

His knees were shaking and he was unsteady when he walked. Katrina supported him the entire way, releasing him only when they reached the sofa and he could sit down. Ichabod bent over and rested his elbows on his knees, supporting his head in his hands. He took deep breaths, feeling as if he were on the verge of suffocating. Sensing this she took a seat beside him but did not reach around to embrace him this time. Instead she lightly placed a hand on his back and began to stroke him. The minutes passed and they sat this way in silence until long after the flames of the candles had died out and the room had grown dark save for a splash of dim light that spilled in from the hallway.

"I was thinking about the day before I left home," he began softly, finally calmer. He sat up and stared straight ahead as he spoke. "My father's home, that is. He hit me in the face so hard he knocked me down. I'll never forget what his face looked like. How much hatred and fury there was in his expression. I don't even remember why he was so enraged at me that day, what I did to make him so."

He felt her staring at him quietly, waiting patiently for him to continue, and he turned, his eyes searching and finding hers in the dark.

"When he hit me in the face it meant that he'd completely lost control. Most of the time he…only aimed for places that would be covered by my clothes, that wouldn't be seen, so that people wouldn't know. Augie Smith, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care whether he leaves visible bruises or not, or whether anyone actually sees him hit her. I can only imagine what kind of marks he left on her body in places that can't be seen. Her neck alone…"

He left the thought unfinished. Now Katrina reached out with both hands and touched his shoulders tentatively. He nodded and leaned in toward her, allowing her to draw him into her arms now.

"It's easy to see how her situation could remind you of your own, how it could cause you so much pain."

"You must feel like you're living with a…" he muttered but she cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

"Shhh. Don't talk that way."

"Katrina, I…" he trailed off and paused. He swallowed, gathered his courage and looked into her face when he spoke again. "I did a terrible thing to her, too."

"What do you mean? I can't imagine you would do anything terrible to anyone..."

"When I met Lydia Smith outside of the Watch House…she called out to me, to get my attention. But she made it obvious that she didn't want me to see her face."

"Yes," she replied after a long pause. "I can understand that."

"I suspected what had happened, that her father had beaten her, and I tried to look at her face. She kept moving into the shadows, turning away, and I…I didn't leave her alone. I continued my attempts to glimpse her face and finally…I grasped her arms so that she couldn't move away and I could see her." He paused, cringing inwardly as he thought of the expression on her face when he'd trapped her that way. "My intent was to discover what had happened, to help her. But my intentions mean nothing. She did not wish to be seen and I had no right to insist otherwise. And I certainly had no right to physically handle her in that way, even if I meant to help her, even though it wasn't in a violent manner meant to harm her. I'm ashamed of myself. I tried to apologize earlier, but it wasn't adequate. When I see her again I shall have to offer a better apology."

Katrina gazed at him, wordlessly. Then she reached out and stroked his face. He covered her hand with his, pressing it against his cheek and holding it there.

"Are you alright now?" she asked after a time.

He nodded and released her hand. "But I look forward to the day, if it ever comes, when the past won't…assail me in this way when I least expect it."

She leaned in and kissed his cheek tenderly.

"Thank you, Katrina."

"It's growing late. Shall we have supper or do you want to stay here for a little while longer?"

"I am hungry actually. Has Stephen returned yet? I didn't hear him come in."

"He took over in the kitchen for me."

Ichabod sighed. "Then he saw me simply standing there…"

"Yes. He saw that you were in distress but he didn't want to disturb you."

"I see." He groaned. "I've managed to inconvenience everyone."

"Hush. We're all flexible in this household."

He smiled wanly. "Still, simply bringing her here disrupted…"

"It's alright. We both realize how important it was to bring her to a safe place to talk."

"Yes."

"Did she give you the information you need?"

"Well, I have her statement now. Her father knows that Mr. Geoffrey killed Mr. Trent and he willfully shielded him, as I suspected. He ordered one of his employees to burn what was no doubt the murder weapon, a heavy wooden plank with blood on it. And he threatened Miss Smith to prevent her from talking to me or anyone else in the constabulary. I do believe that she is telling the truth but it will still be her word against his. Given the treatment she received at the constabulary they may question her validity as a witness as it is, and unfortunately the only other evidence – the weapon itself and the bloody dress she was wearing – has been destroyed by fire."

"What will you do?"

"I'll continue to try to gather more evidence. If I arrest Augie Smith I will have to arrest everyone else involved, including perhaps his daughter. There are specific legal differences and nuances between what each would be charged with, but I'm not an attorney. I suppose they would handle Miss Smith's case differently anyway, as she is a woman. She didn't come forward initially because she'd been threatened; but when the opportunity presented itself she did. Ever since Wednesday, when I first went to the tavern, she has been trying to tell me the truth. Or, as much of the truth as she is aware of. I would hope that they would take that into consideration."

"Then you really have no reason to arrest Miss Smith even if you arrest the others. She did do what was right in the end."

"Yes," he sighed. "Only…she will be left alone if her father and the other employees go to jail. I don't know what will happen to her. She insisted that if I arrest her father I will have to arrest her. I don't know if that's what she wants, or if she's just…she's very odd. Talking to her at different times…it's as if I'm talking to different people. Sometimes within the same conversation her mood shifts. And it isn't only her mood…her personality seems to change from one moment to the next…"

He trailed off and shook his head.

"And her reaction to the terrible way her father treats her is puzzling, too. He's cruel and violent…and yet, when I mention that his behavior is reprehensible and that she doesn't deserve to be treated that way she becomes angry and defends him. I don't understand it. In a million years I wouldn't ever, I _couldn't_ ever defend my father for what he did to me."

"Maybe she's afraid to be angry at him, especially if she's dependent on him. So, perhaps she has to defend him, not only to others but to herself. Will she be alright at the tavern tonight?"

"I hope so. But I gave her enough money to return here if she needs to. It's only temporary but maybe…" he trailed off, his thoughts drifting momentarily. "I can't insist that she return to the Watch House, not under the circumstances."

"Isn't there another constable who works in that area regularly? Constable Green?"

He nodded. "Yes, that's right. That is his beat. I patrol in that vicinity too, but further east, near the river. Our perimeters overlap at certain streets somewhat although he works overnight usually. That is why it's especially ironic that it was I who walked by the alley that morning and found Mr. Trent's body. Given the time the murder occurred and the fact that he would have been on duty it should have been Green who discovered it. But I suppose Green was involved with handling the brawl that entire night and never stepped foot into the alley."

"If Constable Green is always watching the tavern and questioning Mr. Smith, as you have said, surely he knows what happens there. Surely he knows how the man treats his daughter."

"Yes," Ichabod replied softly. "I'm certain Constable Green is well aware of how he treats her. But there is no compassion among the members of the constabulary and I expect that Constable Green treats her the same way as the others treated her today."

"Well, at least you're the exception. Perhaps there are others like you and you're just not aware of them yet." Katrina leaned in and kissed his cheek again. "The guest room is made up. I prepared it for Mr. Latham a fortnight ago. Or rather, for Mr. Drake. If Miss Smith does come back that room is ready for her use."

**oooOooo**

It was nearly eight o'clock when they finally sat down to supper.

"What was the outcome of the Burgomaster's ruling?" Katrina asked, serving Ichabod and Stephen a plateful of food before serving herself. "There doesn't seem to have been any rioting, so I presume he denied the request?"

"Actually he granted it. There were rumblings in the courtroom as soon as he announced his decision and we expected chaos this afternoon and evening. But oddly enough it's been quiet."

"Perhaps after their initial reaction they are becoming more accepting of the concept," she suggested.

"Mm, perhaps, though I'm not counting on it. The worst may be yet to come." Ichabod turned to Stephen, reached out and patted his forearm. "Tell me everything that happened after you left the courtroom when we adjourned. You mentioned that it wasn't him. I assume you meant that the man you followed all day wasn't Thomas Geoffrey."

"No," Stephen answered with a grin. "He was Geoffrey Latham."

"Geoffrey Latham?" Ichabod exclaimed with a start. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, the mysterious Geoffrey Latham has turned up," Katrina remarked. "I wonder what it means."

"It means that Mr. Horn and the others at the Tontine lied about knowing him. I doubt Mr. Ledley knows him from somewhere other than that place."

"But why would they lie about Mr. Latham?"

Ichabod frowned and shook his head. "I have no idea but given that they've lied about everything else, or withheld the truth when they didn't outright lie, it's not surprising. They've certainly been invested in protecting Thomas Geoffrey, so perhaps this is part of shielding him."

"I wonder why Mr. Ledley was meeting Mr. Latham and not Mr. Geoffrey," Stephen said. "I thought for certain he would be anxious to see Mr. Geoffrey."

"As did I," Ichabod replied. He fell silent for several minutes, following a train of thought. "Perhaps Mr. Latham is in touch with Mr. Geoffrey. They all know one another from Hartford; that is my theory anyway. Perhaps Mr. Ledley's intention was to pass along a message to Mr. Geoffrey through Mr. Latham."

He turned to Stephen again.

"How did you come to discover that he was actually Geoffrey Latham? And where did he go after we adjourned for the evening?"

Stephen grinned once more proud of his accomplishment. "He went straight to the building where Mr. Ledley lives. I waited and watched the door after he went inside. They came out about a quarter of an hour later and I followed them back to the Golden Horse tavern. I heard the keeper of the tavern address them as Mr. Latham and Mr. Ledley. I realized then that when Mr. Ledley addressed him as 'Geoffrey' this morning he was using his given name."

"So it would seem," Ichabod answered, setting his fork down absently. He stared into space distantly for a few minutes, a vague idea forming in his mind.

When he turned his attention back to them Katrina and Stephen were both watching him curiously.

"I wonder," he murmured. "These men have all been pretending to be other people. I wonder if he actually _is_ Mr. Geoffrey, pretending to be Mr. Latham."

"Whoever he is, I'm certain he'll meet Mr. Ledley again tomorrow," Stephen offered. "I can follow them again."

Ichabod nodded. "Yes, I believe you're correct. And if Mr. Ledley doesn't meet him I would suggest trying to find this man again at the Golden Horse tavern. Or, perhaps he will even be in the courtroom again tomorrow. Either way we should definitely keep him in our sights."

"I'll return to the Tontine early in the morning."

"Thank you, Stephen. Your assistance has already been invaluable."

**oooOooo**

As they were finishing dinner the bell rang at the front door. Assuming that Lydia Smith had already returned Ichabod pushed his plate aside, stood up and hurried out to answer the door. To his surprise Constable Green was standing there.

"Crane," he said with a nod.

"Good evening," Ichabod responded formally.

"The High Constable has issued an order for all hands to report to the intersection of Broadway and John Street. There is a riot at the Commons. They're yelling for Eldridge."

Ichabod cursed under his breath. Then he nodded.

"Give me a moment to don my uniform. I'll only be a few minutes."

Green was staring past him with wide eyes and he turned around to see that Katrina had stepped out into the hallway. None of his coworkers had ever seen her; Green was now privileged to be the first. Ichabod turned back to his colleague and stared at him sharply before repeating that he would be out shortly and shutting the door.

"What happened?" Katrina asked as he passed her in the hallway and moved into the parlor, where he'd left his bell and uniform jacket.

"There is a riot at the Commons. All reserves are requested to assist."

"After an entire day of quiet?"

"As I said, the worst was yet to come."

"Is this about the Burgomaster's ruling?"

"Either that or the defense attorney's success at casting doubt today on one of Eldridge's alleged motives. But this is about Mr. Eldridge."

Ichabod quickly donned his uniform jacket then kissed her goodbye.

"Hopefully this won't take too long."

"Be careful."

"I will."

He pulled the front door shut behind him and joined Constable Green, who was waiting a few feet away from the door.


End file.
